Boondock Saints: Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings
by MelThorn
Summary: In this prequel to the original film, the MacManus twins suffer a poor livelihood. Broke and penniless, they do all they can to survive on the streets of South Boston, having only a dilapidated loft to call home, the bar, the gun range, and each other. On their way yet to becoming professional assassins, they clash with a corrupt detective who has big plans for their future.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

For some, lower Boston was a prosperous city—for the criminals, the underbosses, the schemers and liars. For others, it was not so much a utopia, or a safe haven, but a rock, which when lifted bares all the ugliness of society that dwells beneath it. It is this part of Boston that Connor and Murphy MacManus would soon reside, though they would feel it an obligation, rather than a choice.

It had been quite a while since they had seen any kind of opportunity to scrap for cash. The previous winter had been a harsh one, and the summer didn't seem any more forgiving. Most work had been taken, and businesses, while keeping their slurs beneath their rancid breath, refused to hire a couple of "Micks" who they felt were beginning to swarm the city with drinking and violence. Any look of scorn cast upon them was met with an matching one in return, especially by Murphy, who wouldn't hesitate to call the Italians "wops" every chance he got.

Connor was more level-headed about their situation. He knew they couldn't live with Rocco forever. There came a time when a resident overstayed his welcome, and he knew that time was approaching swiftly. A spit here and a growl there became a bit too unbearable for him, feeling he had more than one life to look after, and he didn't know how much longer he could face being unemployed. Murphy seemed less interested in working and more in drinking, which might have passed the time well enough for him, but wasn't sufficient in Connor's mind.

Sitting at the tiny table in the filthy kitchen, which was littered with empty beer cans and stained pizza boxes, Connor toyed with a bottle cap between his fingers as he considered the multiple possibilities. His initial thought was "deal drugs." After all, he knew Donna would be a frequent customer, at least according to Rocco. However, if he had chosen to do such a thing, it would go against the very code of ethics he stood by with such devotion. Doing drugs, any kind, was bad enough, but supplying them to those who couldn't help but purchase them was worse.

He glanced at his brother, who was thrown over the cushions of the couch, sprawled in all directions, snorting and wheezing, as he always did after a long night of binge-drinking. It surprised him even to that day how much alcohol Murphy could intake and the quantity only seemed to increase each sit-down session they spent with Rocco or at McGinty's. Even Connor had to protest at the amount of booze he dumped into his head, and he was no better at refraining from consuming the stuff.

_Money_, Connor's mind nagged once again, and it returned to the things that mattered most. Two men in their twenties should not have to rely on friends to hold their weight—at least, that was how Connor saw it, and how he was always taught by his mother. A man must support himself, feed himself, even afford beer by himself. How he missed his mother, and everything else about home. His pride forced him to avoid asking her if he and Murphy could stay with her for a while. He wouldn't put her in that situation.

Murphy stirred, made that groaning sound he always did when waking, only to toss an arm back over his eyes to block the sunlight. He'd bitch about a hangover soon, and Connor wasn't looking forward to it, nor was he looking forward to spending a day in church with him while he was in this state of mind. He fished a crushed pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his ripped, spattered jeans and puffed at one of the many crimped sticks that had been smashed within the box. He hoped it might clear his head, but it only made his thoughts busier.

The front door busted open with a resonating smack, causing Murphy to gasp awake and collapse off of the couch. Connor rose as well, attempting to still his vibrating heart. He settled once he saw Rocco, lowering back into his chair, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"Ay," Murphy coughed from his spot on the littered carpet. "Learn to knock, would ya?"

Rocco, annoyed, glowered at Murphy. "It's _my_ fuckin' place, Murph. Go sleep in the damn gutter."

"Ignore 'im," Connor told Rocco, flicking ash into a tray. "He's hung over again."

"Ah'm not," huffed Murphy, who stumbled to his feet and grabbed his head, only to drop back onto the comfort of the couch.

Putting it out of his mind, Rocco slammed the door shut, storming into the kitchen and diving for the coffee mugs in the upper cabinet, where rows of filthy glasses were stored. "What's eatin' ya, Roc?" Connor asked, noting their companion's flustered movements.

"What do you think?! The damn bitch." He muttered this a few more times before pouring a cup of old coffee that Connor had made the previous night to sober up his brother. "I told her! I fuckin' told her! She doesn't give a shit!"

"Donna again." He shook his head, wondering why he expected anything else.

"She stole some of my shit to buy drugs for the fourth time this month. Some of my records! Those are fuckin' collector's items, man!"

"Ya ne'er listen to dem," grunted Murphy from the trashed living room.

Tensing up and releasing a heavy sigh, Rocco snapped, "You're not _supposed_ to listen to them. You're supposed to _collect_ them."

"But why would ya want to collect dem if yer not goin' to listen to dem?"

"Murphy, _please_. I'm in a really fucking bad mood right now. I don't have the patience to talk to you about _fucking records,_ okay?!" Murphy turned his nose up at him, indicating his problems were his own and wanted no part of it anyhow. Connor's eyes fell to the table surface while Rocco glared at him next. Connor took a long drag off of the cigarette perched between his cracked lips. "Guys, I'm sorry, but at this rate, I can't afford to have you here anymore."

"Where're we s'pposed to go?" asked Connor, looking at his friend with desperation.

"I don't know, man. But you can't stay here. I have enough problems with the druggie bitch on my hands."

"Why don' you jus' t'row _her_ ass out, huh?" Murphy taunted.

"She has a vagina," Connor uttered on the depths of his breath.

Rocco heard him, but made no remark on it. He was half right. "I'll help you guys find a new place."

"Don' worry 'bout it, Roc. We'll be all 'ight."

"Like hell we will!" shouted Murphy from the sidelines. Connor flashed him a calming stare to ease him, but Murphy's agitation was unabated. Still, he kept his mouth shut, at least for a while. Connor left his seat, gathered Murphy from his nest of cushions and blankets and turned to Rocco one last time.

"Yer a good friend, Roc. No one else would've taken us in dis long."

"Yeah, yeah," Rocco grunted, smacking his palm upon his neck to kill an unsuspecting mosquito. "Take care of yourselves, would you?"

On their way out, Murphy couldn't stop his griping, and Connor wished he would. He knew this day was upon them, and he was certain Murphy was also well aware of its approach. "Fuckin' wop, keepin' dat drugged up whore aroun' while we go out with just da clot'ing on our backs." He turned his gaped maw up toward the window of Rocco's place, yelling, "Hope she's wort' it, ya dumb dago!"

"Chris' all migh'y," Connor gasped, tugging his brother along the street. "Why don' ya make an even bigger raucous, maybe scare more of da neighbors? Dey got kids here, man."

"Can't help it, Connor," Murphy confided. "Head hurts, m'hungreh. _Been_ hungreh fer days."

Connor knew just how he felt. All he could do was put a consoling hand upon his back and give it a few graceful pats. Now that they were out on the street, they had no idea where their next destination would be. Where would they go from here? Without a cent to their name, they wouldn't be able to find a place to live, and they'd be even less able to afford any food. The only place they knew they could find solace in was the cathedral down the street, where they were comfortable no matter how much cash was in their pockets.

With a shove of the heavy doors, both Connor and Murphy crossed through the entrance, stepping into the towering room, trailing between the wooden pews. They took a seat in the very back, each of them bowing their heads. Connor's prayer consisted of asking for shelter for him and his brother, whereas Murphy's was laden with pleads for his headache to go away, as well as to get some food in his stomach.

After crossing their hearts, Murphy jumped to his feet and made a mad dash for the exit, surprising Connor out of his prayer. Soon, he joined his brother outside, and watched as he puked upon the pavement, unsettling passersby. Connor hated the sight of people vomiting. His stomach never managed to handle it without tumbling as well.

Once he was done blowing chunks, Murphy sat back on his knees, then cackled up at the sky. "Oh, t'ank da lord. My headache's gone."

"Works in mysterious ways." He took his hand helped Murphy back up. "I've got an idea. Why don' we pay Doc a visit? He might have some'tin' for us."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "More whiskeh." He ignored the scolding glare of his twin and started heading in the direction of McGinty's, Connor in tow, who somehow knew that each step they took was one closer to a path of destiny.

Connor had barely cracked the door of McGinty's open before he was greeted with a warm cheer. "C-C-C-Connor!" The old man hadn't seen them in a few nights, and to him, that was a long time. "M-Murphy! C-Come in, boyos!"

Murphy wasted no time heading for the bar, where he sat and grinned, his eyes scrunched up in that crinkled squint as he pulled at the prickly fuzz on his chin. Connor took a seat beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and rested his arms upon the bar top, a familiar Irish jig playing on the stereo system at a hushed volume.

"What have you boys b-been up to?"

"We're lookin' fer work," Connor explained. "Well, more den we a'ready have been."

"Still on hard times, are ya?"

Murphy snickered, and they both glanced at him. He fell silent and eyed the bar, then the rest of the room, pretending it didn't happen. "Aye," Connor responded. "Rocco booted us. We're stuck on da street now."

Murphy tapped the bar with his index finger. Doc stared him down. "C-c-can't serve those who c-c-can't pay, Murphy."

"Aw, come on!" He dropped his head onto the wooden surface, which clunked as they came in contact.

"Ya had enough anyway, ya lush," Connor let him know. Murphy didn't bother putting up a fight. "Do ya know where we might be able to snag jobs?"

Doc ran a hand over his silver hair, adjusting his thick, round glasses that rested upon his pink, bulbous nose. "As a ma'er of fact, I heard dat old m-m-meat-packing plant is looking for extra hands. _FUCK!_" Neither of them flinched, having been accustomed to such random outbursts by now.

"Meat-packin'?" Connor confirmed. There was another snorting giggle from Murphy. "Da fuck is yer problem?"

"Not'in'," he chortled.

"Would dey care if we was Irish?"

"C-c-can't say. I don' t'ink dey'd give a damn ei'ter way. Las' I heard, dey were pretty desperate for help. _ASS!_"

"Well, it's a start. T'anks, Doc."

"One o'ter t'ing. T'ere are dese…" His eyes skimmed the ceiling, surreptitious and wandering. "L-L-Lofts."

"What kind of lofts?"

"T'ey don' have a manager dere. L-l-living dere is f-free."

"Free?" Murphy sang, his head, as well as his hopes, rising.

"It's a fuckin' shit hole, and you'd be illegal squatters, b-but it's be'er den not'in'. _FUCK!_"

Connor smiled at the sound of this news, slapping a palm against his brother's back, who winced. "We may be all 'ight after all." Murphy rubbed his shoulder, which stung. He must have bruised it the night before, but couldn't remember how. "T'anks again. We'd be'er go check it out."

"Before you boys go," Doc began, then poured them each a shot of whiskey. Murphy's tongue wagged as drool glistened the corner of his mouth. "Have one on da house."

Connor scooped up his shot, as did Murphy, and while swapping grins, they toasted to each other. "Veritas," chimed Connor.

"Aequitas," replied Murphy, and they downed them in a flash. The burn of fresh liquor cascading down their throats was a welcome start to the afternoon. They gave each other a brotherly smack on the bicep, set the empty shot classes upon the bar, then said their farewells to Doc as they headed back out to the street, refreshed and rejuvenated. Things would change that day, Connor was certain of it, and it was only the beginning of what would shape their futures.


	2. Chapter 2

Rot and decay. Those were the two words Murphy would have found apt to describe the series of lofts he and Connor found. The building itself, which was five floors high, reeked of cat piss and mildew, and the halls were filled with the squeals of children and bickering adults. For the entire elevator ride up, Murphy made no comment on his discontent, knowing how at ease his brother was at the mere thought of them being off of the street. He dreaded what they would find when they would eventually meet what would be their new home, and already surmised and expected the very worst. Perhaps a dead body was stored there, or the previous owner had an abnormal fetish. Sure, their shoes would stay dry off of the wet sidewalk, but Murphy had to question the cost of positive change.

The front door was cracked, chipped near the handle, and a splinter ran down the rim of the frame as though it had been kicked in on multiple occasions and repaired with the weakest of glue. Murphy ran a finger over it, only to widen the crack further with what little pressure he put on it. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head, and looked to Connor for assurance. Connor seemed a lot less troubled than he was, in fact, appeared relieved. It was rare that Murphy saw such a potent smile on his face, though he was the gentler of the two of them.

Connor opened the creaking door, more flakes of wood dusting to the ground. Murphy kicked some off of his shoe as he followed his twin into the loft, and right away, was kicked back by a wafting scent of must. It could have been coming from the rusty showerheads on the wall ahead of them, or perhaps from the cracked, filth-encrusted toilet, which might have once been white, but Murphy would hardly call it such with the dark stains coating every inch of it. The floor was carpeted, but it too was speckled with blotches of all shapes and, to Murphy's horror, colors. The most surprising find of all was the two twin-sized mattresses dressing the floor, which were bare of any sheets or blankets, and the ripped, broken sofa next to the doorway, where a gaping hole showed the wooden skeleton and hunks of fabric and cotton beneath.

This… was the ultimate shit hole.

Murphy dropped his jaw, unable to comprehend the sight. He had never seen anything quite so efficient of labeling them as "poor," other than the fact that they had empty pockets and holes in their T-shirts. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, because no insult, no spew of derision would be good enough. Connor, on the other hand, held his hands out to the sides and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils.

"Ya smell dat?" He asked Murphy, who replied with a curl of his nose. "Dat's _freedom_ my dear bro'ter!"

Murphy wouldn't call it that. He would call it _shit_ if he had a mind to. "Glad ya like it." He pointed at the toilet, or what was left of it. "Da fuck?" he indicated.

Connor glanced in the direction he was pointing. "What?"

"Dere's no wall!"

"So?"

"So… I have to watch ya shit?"

Connor's tongue traced the inside of his cheek, his eyes lifting, then falling again. When he placed his hands on his hips, Murphy already knew there was no arguing to be had. "S'not dat big o'deal, is it?"

"Depends on how long I have to suffer t'rough it."

"Fer fuck's sake, Murph. Ya don' _have_ to watch. I ne'er asked ya to!"

Murphy snuffed at him, dropping the matter. He collapsed down onto one of the mattresses, which groaned under what little weight he had. The springs sank down toward the floor, and some of them pinched his ass. He grunted in discomfort. "Connor," he sighed. Connor's face fell when he saw how upset he looked. He too sat down, facing him on the adjacent bed. "Do ya t'ink maybeh… we ne'er should have left Ireland?"

This hadn't been the first time they had this discussion, but Murphy might have forgotten it with how much he drank. He softened his voice, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward toward him. "Sometimes."

"I miss our home. A lot."

"I do, too."

"_Fuckin' A_. Den what are we doin' here?!"

"Ya know we can't burden ma anymore."

"Aw, for fuck's sake! Da woman begged us to stay! She fuckin' _cried_."

Connor dragged a sweating palm down his face, over his reddish-oak hair and stubble-coated neck. "Murph… I know how ya feel. I do. Sometimes… we have to do what we t'ink is right, even if we don' t'ink it'll work out fer us. Ma loves us, I know she does, and misses us. But ya know she can't afford us." Murphy dropped his head, presenting the top of his short, dark hair to him, rubbing the stress from his eyes. "Besides. Dis is da land of opportunity."

"Fer fat, rich, white folk maybeh," Murphy scowled, his eyebrows folding. "Dat ain't us."

"It _can_ be. Yer jus' not lookin' at it da righ' way."

With a growl, Murphy dragged his hand over his clipped locks. "I'll look at it da righ' way when we actually have clot'es to change into."

"We'll see how da new job works out. Ya ne'er know. It migh' be our firs' break in a long time. Ma would be proud of us." He was glad to see this made Murphy smile. He patted his shoulder, swiping at least a gram of sweat onto his hide, but Murphy didn't seem to mind. He grinned even wider at it. For once, they'd be able to relax on their own place, sleep without being woken by arguing, and soon they might be able to afford more than just a few shots at McGinty's every Friday night. Connor lied down on the old bed, staring up at the cracked, broken ceiling, his mind brewing and stirring with thoughts on their possible futures. One thing he couldn't wait to get above all else after a paycheck was a television. He missed TV, possibly more than he missed Ireland.

Murphy, on the other hand, could give a shit less about TV. That was Connor's thing, and he could have it all he wanted. What he missed was the target practice he and his brother shared in the backyard. He wouldn't say so to Connor, but it was one of the reasons he wanted to go back. Whenever the weather was right, they'd head out to the field, set up some long-range targets, and blast the hell out of them. Sure, the pistols were shoddy, but he didn't care. It was the steam he was able to let off when doing it that mattered, as well as the bonding time he had with Connor. It was Connor that taught him how to shoot well. It was Connor that taught him how to line up his aim. It was Connor that praised him when he got even better at shooting than he did. They'd eventually have competitions to see who could shoot the best and the quickest, and it took him a while, but he eventually beat Connor in some of their more recent matches. Connor was good about it. He always complimented him.

He supposed that if he did want a gun, it was pretty easy to snag one in the US. Money might not even need to factor into the equation. They didn't need the best firepower money could by, but just a couple of toys to play with. He wanted to rejoin his brother at the range, to shoot some stress off of his shoulders, to get tackled by him depending on the winner of the game. That was what life was all about. It'd be even better with a few beers in them.

Murphy sighed with longing, and Connor looked his way. "Ya all 'ight?"

"Aye," Murphy muttered, the corner of his lips easing up for a moment. "I jus' hope t'ings go back to semi-normal between us."

"We'll be okay. You'll see."

Murphy didn't want them to be "okay." He wanted things to be "good," perhaps even better than that. In Connor's view, their situation might not have been the best, but it was something they could work with Though Connor was with him every day, and they did everything together, he _missed_ him, and the things they used to do. There would come a time for them to return to doing what they loved best. They just needed a wad of dough to get it done.

Connor wasn't as fond of the smell of blood as Murphy was, and couldn't imagine getting used to it. Even in the autumns when they would hunt together, it was Murphy who would do the field dressing, and he was good with a knife. Knives were hardly Connor's specialty. No matter how good of a grip he got on one, he couldn't get comfortable with the feel of it in his hand. The handle of a gun always felt better; smoother. However, he couldn't cut meat with a gun, and he couldn't go to the range with a knife. One way or the other, he'd have to get used to it.

Murphy took to the job right away. Not only could he cut meat well, but he could do so in the blink of an eye. It took all of Connor's strength to keep up with him, and the poorly-ventilated building poured forth buckets of sweat from every orifice. Blazing gusts of summer heat combining with steam and long, white overcoats was a recipe for the worst kind of dehydration, which by now, Connor suffered from.

Since their early teens, they had been competitive with one another, and he liked that about their relationship, but in this instance it only overworked him. Murphy was faster at everything these days. If he wanted to be ahead of the game, he had to put a little elbow grease into his daily work. He hadn't been aware of just how far behind he would fall.

"Don' even try it, Connor," Murphy advised. "Ya can't beat meh."

"Ya know how much I love a challenge," he laughed.

"Hope yer hungreh fer dust. Yer goin' to be eatin' it." Murphy's wrist movements only picked up in speed, and Connor thought it probably would have been best to end it there, but he couldn't resist his taunts. They always managed to stir up his wild side.

"Is dat before or after yer kissin' mah ass?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed, but his smirk hinted at his playfulness. For every three haunches Murphy sliced, Connor cut one, but as the minutes ticked by, his speed dropped even further as an ache coursed down his left wrist, and as he was a southpaw, this meant for less functionality. He stopped his work to give the twinge a rub, and Murphy snickered at his slowing tempo.

"I told ya," he mocked.

"I don' feel so good." He snapped his rubber glove off of his hand and wiped his brow.

Murphy's eyes danced toward the ceiling. "Fuck you. Ya always do dis when yer losin' to meh."

"Shut da fuck up, m'serious. Me head's spinnin'."

Murphy put his taunting on hold for a moment and lowered his hands to the counter and studied his brother's rocking legs and swaying shoulders. "Stop fuckin' wit' meh, I know ya are."

"M'not. I feel like m'goin' to…" With a short gasp, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor with a smacking thud. The knife that was once in Murphy's hand clanged against the counter as he released it, and after slipping his gloves off, he dove to the ground beside him, tapping his palm against his cheek.

"Connor," he stammered with loose breath. His many taps to the face didn't manage to rouse him. He lied limp upon the floor, unmoving, like the many slabs of meat hanging on the belt. "_Connor!_" There was nothing, not even at the sound of Murphy's voice. Murphy turned to the many onlookers standing at the counters. "Don' jus' fuckin' stand dere! Get 'im some water!"

Another employee, one Murphy didn't know the name of, rushed off to a room that was out of view while he tended to his brother. "_Tá súil agam go bhfuil tú ceart go leor_," he told him, whether or not he could hear it. His co-worker, an older woman with dark hair, a full body, and biceps built for handiwork, returned, handing him a plastic cup filled with cold water.

"What happened?" she asked Murphy.

"Dunno," he answered. "He said he wasn't feelin' well." Once he managed to pry Connor's mouth open, he poured some of the water into it, leaning his head up so that it would leak down his throat. Then, he waited before doing it a second time, until the cup was empty. For a moment, nothing happened, and Murphy considered telling the other workers to phone a hospital.

Then, before he could even assimilate the chain of events, Murphy felt a spray of lukewarm mist soaking his face, and following the assault of spittle, he heard the amused cackles of his twin. Murphy didn't have it in him to wipe the waterfall from his cheeks, nor did he want to argue with his brother about the joke he had just played on him. He could only stare at the spectacle before him, wounded.

"Ah, man!" Connor giggled, his face scrunched up as an impish grin filled his mouth. "Ya should'a heard yer voice, Murph! '_Connor, Connor'!_" He burst into an all new fit of laughter, stronger than the last, enough to cause his sides to ache.

Murphy, burning with a fury so deep that he could say he hated his twin in that moment, slammed a balled-up fist into Connor's shoulder, making him cry out, exchanging his joy for pain. "Fuckin' piece a'_shit!_" he screamed, then leapt to his feet and stormed off, knocking back a plastic curtain.

Connor stalled his explanation to his observers, feeling a bit ashamed of himself. He didn't think Murphy would get angry enough to punch him, especially in an area he knew he was sensitive in. When he staggered back to a standing position, he waved a pathetic apology to those who witnessed the scene. What was with their glares? Couldn't they take a joke?

Before they could castrate him with one of those hulking filet knives they brandished, he rushed past the plastic curtain Murphy darted through, finding him sitting upon a stack of boxes near the cold storage. When he approached him, he did so with caution, rubbing his throbbing, boney shoulder. "Ay," he muttered. Murphy glowered up at him. "M'sorry. I didn' t'ink ya'd take it dis bad."

"Yer an asshole. D'ya know dat?"

Connor lowered his eyes to the cement floor, which was scraped to hell and back from the tracks of moving equipment. "Murph, it was jus' a joke."

"I can fuckin' _see dat, ya prick! Da fuck is da matter wit' ya?! Ná joke faoi bhás!_"

"I wasn't jokin' abou' death! I really fainted! I was jus'…" He ran a dirty hand across his auburn hair. "Jus' makin' light of da sit'iation."

Growling to himself, Murphy clasped his head in his hands. When he lifted his eyes again, they were pinched and burning. "Fine. Yer fer'given."

"Don' be angry."

"Can we jus' ferget it e'er happened?"

Connor raised his palms in defeat. With that signal, Murphy rose off of his seat on the boxes and made for the processing station. Before he got too far, Connor stopped him. "Ya sounded really worried for meh."

Murphy didn't look at him, but Connor could sense his rage. "Why don' ya fuckin' mock meh abou' it again, eh?"

"I wasn't."

"Like hell ya aren't. Go on, laugh it up. It's so damn funneh. _I t'ought you were gonna die_."

"M'sorry," Connor repeated. "I won' do it again. Promise."

Murphy softened at his oath, and his tone of voice. "All 'ight."

"I'm glad ya care so much."

Murphy huffed, lifting his shoulders. "Yeh, well. Get da fuck back to work." Without another word, he walked off, but at a calmer pace this time. Though Connor felt it might take a little while for him to forgive him, he had a smile on his face when he returned to the station.

At the final whistle of the day, they both headed back for the loft, or the "shit hole" as Murphy liked to call it, and retired for the evening, though there was very little to do otherwise, anyway. Connor passed out almost immediately, but Murphy wasn't exhausted enough to do so yet. While lying on the creaking, dusty mattress that had yet to be comfortable enough to sleep on, Murphy gazed at his resting brother, thinking of the earlier events. What would he have done if Connor _had_ died, not only in the method he joked about, but in any way? Would he have bothered continuing with his life, the very life that had little-to-no meaning in it? Without Connor there, there wouldn't be a reason. They didn't have much to live for but each other. If one was removed from the equation, there would be nothing left but a miserable life.

Dwelling on it, Murphy managed to stress himself out, worrying if and when it could happen. He stirred upon the mattress's springs, which jabbed and poked his back, and punching them didn't help any. When he got up and paced the room, he drew the attention of Connor, who turned to face him.

Not able to look at any sort of clock, Connor asked him, "Murph, what time is it?"

Murphy paused, his back to him, his head down. "Dunno."

Sensing tension in his voice, he sat up and stared him down. "What's wrong?"

"Not'in. Go back to sleep."

"Have you…" He paused, thinking Murphy might retaliate, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Have you been _cryin_'?"

"Fuck you," Murphy snapped, thinking he was mocking him again, then made a brisk run for the door, yanking it open, almost pulling it off of the hinges. Connor got off the bed and chased after him, watching him get into the elevator. "Goin' fer a walk," he grunted.

"Is dis about what happened at da plant?"

"Go back to sleep," Murphy repeated, and slammed the elevator door shut, riding it down. As Connor stood in the doorway to their place, he watched the lift descend until it was out of view. When he returned to the loft without Murphy, he couldn't get back to sleep as he asked him to.

Instead of getting back into bed, Connor climbed out to the fire escape and jogged down the metallic steps until he reached the bottom, finding Murphy already transcending the alley, puffing at a cigarette. When Connor dropped in front of him like a moonlighting vigilante swooping onto a victim, he staggered back in shock.

"Let me walk wit' ya," Connor offered. Murphy was silent for a moment. "I… need de air."

Murphy hesitated, but then nodded, continuing on his journey, this time with his brother beside him. Now, he was a lot more comfortable.


	3. Chapter 3

A gift had been granted upon Murphy, and it came with a fifteen round clip and a nine millimeter caliber. Black, lightweight, and brand spanking new, the handgun was a snug and comfortable fit in his right palm, and even as the gun dealer spoke at great length about its capabilities, Murphy could only hold his eyes on the sleek, shimmering barrel and trigger, each designed with destruction in mind, and each as beautiful as God's golden and lavender sunrise.

"How much?" Murphy asked the dealer, whose detailed descriptions were interrupted at last.

"Normally t'ree fifty," he answered with a dejected sigh, his chance for discussing guns eliminated. "But… since yer Irish…" He shrugged. "We migh' be able to cut a good deal."

These words were music to Murphy's near-deaf ears. "And fer two o'dem?"

The dealer, surprised at the offer, raised his eyebrows and thumbed his curved chin. "Half off of both if ya get dem toget'er. I don' normally do dis sort o't'ing, but I like ya."

Murphy opened the chamber and looked inside at the hollow tube within, checking it for damage or flaws. "Stop kissin' my ass and sell meh da fuckin' t'ings."

Wincing and doubling back at his snappiness, he waved him to the adjacent room, an area enveloped in dim lighting, ripe with a smell of dampness, smoke and gunpowder. The dealer retrieved a black box from a combination-locked safe, which required a small key to open. Once the box was unlatched, he tossed the cover back and Murphy got a glimpse of the many stacks of bills, which brought dryness to his throat and clamminess to his palms. If only he and Connor had that much dough. They could clean out every liquor store from here to Pittsfield. They could buy an actual house. They could buy a car. They could be the complete opposite of miserable.

The dealer held his hand outward, turning his palm upward into a cup. Murphy reached into the pocket of his jeans and fished for his entire paycheck's worth of cash, and passed it to him, trigger finger shaking with bliss. After counting the money, he slipped it into the box, then guided Murphy back to the armory, where he cased two handguns of the same type and handed them over. Murphy took the cases by the handles, nodded to him in thanks, and made his way toward the stairs.

"Happy shootin'!" called the dealer as he watched him vacate the premises. "Hope I see ya again soon!"

The business card the guy handed him would be a reminder to stop by whenever he needed a fashionable upgrade. When sunlight struck his face as he reached the surface, all he could think was how thrilled Connor would be that they'd start up one of their oldest hobbies once more. He was certainly overexcited at the idea. Paper targets of all shapes and sizes would once again meet the wrath of bullets set upon them by the MacManus brothers, all while the air rang triumphant with their shots. He missed the sound of those deafening cracks and pops, and the feel of his biceps tightening at the recoil. Comparing sex with the feel of the power in his palms was debatable, but he might be inclined to choose guns over sweating skin if given the choice.

Rocco, who had been kind enough to drive him to the dealer, was waiting in the car by the curb. When Murphy returned and climbed into the passenger seat, he glimpsed at the packages he carried.

"Shit, you got two of them?" he queried, hope twinkling in his eyes.

"One's fer Connor," Murphy said, popping his daydreaming balloon.

Disappointed, Rocco scoffed. "Course. What are you guys planning to do with them, anyway?"

"Shootin' range. We used to do target practice a lot back at home."

"What do you do with the skill once you've mastered it?" Rocco wondered as he pulled into the flow of traffic, heading back toward Murphy's neighborhood.

Murphy hadn't thought much on that before. All he knew was that he loved shooting things. "Dunno. Learn to shoot targets better, I s'ppose."

Riotous laughter echoed from Rocco's deep voice, his bearded jaw stretching down as the boom left his throat. "You're kidding me, right? Why do you need to know how to shoot targets? Admit it, man. You're practicing how to shoot people."

"Where da fuck is dis comin' from?"

"Think about it, Murph. I bet you do all the time. When you shoot one of those targets you imagine it's a huge fucking guy with a bigger gun." Murphy shook his head, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. "Nothing wrong with having an active imagination. Or wanting to shoot some people. Some people really do need to be wiped off the planet."

"Aye," Murphy agreed, though he wouldn't get too deep into the discussion. The truth was, he _had_ thought about such things before, but discussing those thoughts with others was a whole other ballpark.

"Hey, I'm not judging you, man. If that's your thing, that's your thing. As long as you don't get _me_ shot, I'm all good with it."

"I don' t'ink dat'll happen," he reassured.

"Does your brother know you bought them?"

Murphy, busy sinking in thoughts of gunshots, had to take a moment to understand him. Then: "Oh. Nah. It's a surprise."

"Is he going to be cool with the fact that you spent your whole fucking paycheck on _guns?_"

"I guess dere's only one way I'll find out."

"For how much you spent on them, I hope you got them monogrammed."

This made Murphy frown. If he had gotten them monogrammed, it would have made the purchase a hell of a lot cooler, not to mention a more sentimental gift. When Rocco parked at the curb to let Murphy out, he leaned across the seat so that he could hear him speak through the rolled-down window.

"You guys want to go out for drinks later? I have to get away from Donna. She's driving me fucking _nuts._"

"Sure," Murphy agreed. "I know Connor will want to, as well."

"Seven good?" Murphy nodded, taking a hit, the cherry of his cigarette burning. "See you then." With both gun cases in hand and the smoldering cigarette between his chapped lips, Murphy jogged home, wishing the lift would go faster as he rode it up to the loft. Connor would be home by now, and he'd be happy to see him.

As soon as the door moaned open, Connor, who had been rummaging around in a brown paper bag, looked up at his brother, gleeful. Murphy returned the grin, hauling the cases inside and setting them down on the couch. When he next looked at Connor, his face was vacant of the smile he sprung at the sight of him.

"What's dat?" He pointed at the shiny, black boxes Murphy had brought in with him.

"I'll show ya." Grabbing one of the containers, he unsnapped the latches and brought it over to Connor, presenting it to him like a mountain of diamonds. Connor placed both hands on the lid and eased it back, peeking inside at the handgun, which was nestled on a bed of velvet lining. He failed to breathe when he met the weapon for the first time.

"Murph…" he sighed in equal parts elation and agony. "Where…?"

"Some underground dealer. He gave meh a discount." Proud of his discovery, Murphy beamed at his brother.

"I…" Connor dragged his hand over his fuzz-covered jaw, then dragged it up over his neck. "I t'ought ya were gonna get food."

"Dis was more important."

"What're we gonna eat? I can't eat a gun fer dinner."

Murphy, who had been riding cloud nine since purchasing the firearms, sank along with the nimbus he sat upon. "Well… I… I wanted us to go to da range again."

Despite how worried he was, Connor couldn't help but feel warmed at his brother's attempts at bringing them closer to each other. Still, they weren't doing too well for themselves, and conditions hadn't improved. "Ya couldn't wait a couple more weeks?"

Heartbroken, Murphy shut the case and locked it, bringing it back to the couch to set it against its companion. "I guess not."

Connor cursed under his breath. Seeing Murphy angry, agitated and frustrated was one thing, but seeing him sad was too much for him. "Look, I'm not angry. I'm touched you got dem fer us. I want to go shootin' wit' ya, too. Ya just have to understand we're not exactly livin' like kings here."

"I know dat. I jus'…" He scratched the back of his neck. "I jus' t'ought it'd be nice."

"It was. Really. De gun's beautiful." He sighed when seeing Murphy standing with his back to him, hearing the fizzle of the cigarette every time he took a puff from it, hiding his face from view. He took a couple of steps closer to him, then planted a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tender stroke. Murphy turned to face him, his emotions unreadable and cold as they sometimes were. Connor reassured him with a wide smile, one that Murphy loved seeing. It was the ultimate sign of confidence and affection.

"M'sorry," he said. "We'll go dis weekend."

"Ya really want to?"

"Course I do! More'n anythin'!"

Murphy's melancholy mood diminished, and he could smile again. He clapped his arms around Connor's neck and clung, and Connor was happy to do the same to his waist. When the grip around his sternum became a bit too tight, Connor winced and gagged.

"Easy, Murph," he grunted. "I like my head attached to my neck."

"Sorry." He loosened his hold, then smacked a kiss to his face, leaving a light trace of saliva and heat. Connor, who had already been red enough from all of the hauling and sweating, brightened at the physical contact, though he wasn't sure why. Murphy had kissed him before, but not with such care or softness. It was new, but not unwelcome.

Nervous at how many tingles were now racing up his nerves, he let his brother go and changed the subject as fast as he could. "So, uh… I got us some new clot'es. Ya wanna take a look?"

Now wearing a smirk that even an ice pick couldn't break, Murphy followed him to the brown bag he had been fiddling with when he first entered. "Sure. Show me what ya got."

Connor, refusing to look his brother in the eye in fear that he might see something there he didn't want him to, pulled some shirts out of the bag, most, if not all of them, in plain dark colors. He passed Murphy some that were in his size, and he nodded in approval as he checked them out. With those, Connor removed some jeans, which looked used and worn. Murphy didn't express his distaste, knowing their options were limited. They might have been comfortable jeans, for all he knew.

The last two things that Connor retrieved from the bag were two extensive, black Navy pea coats with oversized buttons and thick collars. Murphy dropped the clothes in his hands, in a state of awe at the beauty of the items Connor held onto.

"Got dese on a clearance rack," Connor told him, excitement in his every word. "Can you believe it? Who da fuck would give dese away?"

Murphy lunged for one of the coats, unfurling it and draping it in front of him, checking it over, tonguing his upper lip. "Oh, dese are sexy, man."

"Right? I t'ought dey looked professional. Maybe I could wear one to an interview, er some'tin."

"Fuck, I'd wear it everywhere."

"It's da dead o'summer."

"I don' care." He slipped an arm into a sleeve, feeling the soft, slick fabric underneath, then pushed his other arm through the adjacent sleeve before straightening the collar. He smirked down at his own image, then cracked a loud pat to his brother's shoulder. "Ya did good!"

Connor, grinning, scanned the coat as it now sat on Murphy's body. "Looks better on you den it did in da store."

Murphy puckered his lips at him, and Connor turned away from it, dabbing sweat off of his neck. "Roc wants to drink wit' us tonight."

"Does he e'er want to do any'tin' else?"

"Might as well. It's an excuse to get out of dis… _place._"

"Well, I'm not goin' anywhere 'til I take a fuckin' shower." He paced the room for a moment, looking upon Murphy, who only stood and stared at him. "What're ya lookin' at?" Murphy shrugged, slipping the coat off when the heat got too much for him, then lied it on the couch next to the gun cases. When he next looked at Connor, he had stripped his shirt off, and removed his boots. Murphy kept his body turned to the wall and his head turned over his shoulder, finishing the last of his cigarette while watching Connor unsnap the button on his jeans and pull the zipper down.

By the time Connor had slid his boxers down past his ankles, Murphy had already lit up another cigarette and smoked it halfway down. Their eyes met for a brief, awkward moment, and he averted his, looked up at the walls, the ceiling, the filthy, stained carpet— anywhere but at his brother's groin. As he pinched the cigarette between his fingertips, he feigned interest in the old, busted refrigerator tucked in the corner, which he opened and pretended to look inside of. He wasn't surprised to find it empty, though he knew he was the one to blame for that. Connor studied him for a moment before walking to the tiled wall and turning on the showerhead.

_No, not at all, not looking at your crotch,_ Murphy reasoned with himself. _Why would I do such a thing?_

Good question. He didn't have any answers for his conscience. As he pulled a damp palm over his short hair, he cleared his throat a few times as heard the water running, heard it splashing against bare skin. Overwhelmed, Murphy uttered, "I t'ink I'm gonna go outside for a bit."

Connor couldn't help but smile, leaning his head back underneath the stream of water as it streaked in rivers down his chest and abdomen. "Ya sure ya don' wanna shower, too?"

"_Fuck,_" Murphy hissed, then threw the front door open before his twin could see how tight his jeans had gotten. When he escaped the scene, he only stood inches from the door, sucking in as much nicotine as he could manage. "Fuckin' A," he whispered to himself, scratching at places that didn't really itch.

Even after hearing the shower shut off in the apartment, Murphy remained outside, unable to calm the tension in his lower hemisphere. If Connor saw it at any time, he'd crack jokes. He had to be in the right mood for his wisecracks, and at that moment, his mood was anything but relaxed.

Connor opened the door, spying Murphy sitting on the floor next to it. They exchanged glances of both confusion and hunger. "Ya comin' in?" he offered, holding the door open.

Murphy lingered there in his spot, unmoving for a while. "I like it out here… so…" His shoulders lifted, then fell.

"I don' care, ya know."

Curious, he tilted his head. "Abou'?"

"That ya…" Connor had no idea how to finish that sentence. There was no appropriate way to address it. "Got… ya know."

"No, I _don'_ know. What are ya talkin' abou'?"

"Ferget it." Grimacing, Connor went to shut the door, but Murphy leapt to his feet, shoving his way inside, back to his gruff self again. Connor shut the door, or what was left of it, and kept an eye on him as he started pulling his clothes off. Connor, unlike Murphy, didn't leave the room, but sat on the couch after moving the items aside. When Murphy got under the water, Connor also smoked, but he watched every second of Murphy's shower like he did one of his many favorite movies. No movie, however, was quite like this one.

Feeling Connor's eyes on him, Murphy glanced his way, and turned scarlet. "Da fuck ya watchin' me for?" he snarled.

"Dunno," Connor answered with honesty, just a touch above a whisper.

_I like it, though,_ his mind confirmed. _I don't know why, but I like it._

"Well fuckin' watch da birds outside or some'tin."

He tried to pry his eyes away from the soap suds moving down Murphy's backside, but he was hypnotized by it. He squeezed his legs together, hoping it might kill the inclining warmth between them, but that only seemed to worsen the problem. A second too late was when he realized he had been biting the filter of his cigarette, as the cleft of his jeans had been biting his crotch.

Murphy checked again to see if he was watching, and when he saw that he was, didn't know how to feel about it. _Turned on_ would have been the first description, but it disturbed him just how much. Before he could get caught with a stiffened organ, he shut the water off and grabbed one of the dirty towels hanging up, drying his skin off as fast as he could. Connor watched him do that, too, as if his eyes had become separate sentient beings intent on driving him insane. The fact that the whole thing aroused him made him even more perplexed, having seen his brother naked on multiple occasions in the past, and never feeling quite so hot under the collar about it. If his libido could shed tears, it'd be bawling now.

There was a quiet period between them, a moment of emotional affluence, when Murphy hesitated reaching for the clean clothes waiting for him in a pile on the bedspread. He chucked the towel, locking eyes with Connor, who had let his cigarette burn down to the filter without noticing; who hadn't blinked once since Murphy started washing himself.

"Ya gonna jus' sit dere?" Murphy sneered at him, planting his palms onto his hipbones.

Connor's mouth dropped open, and prepared to respond, but his loosening fingers dropped the burning filter into his lap. "_Fuck!_" he screeched, leaping off of the couch and batting the tiny stick of fire off of his clothes. Once he found it on the floor, he scooped it up and took it to the ashtray, stamping it out. When the smoke quite literally cleared, he glanced at Murphy, whose right eyebrow was raised, as was the corner of his mouth. Connor grinned and started chuckling. Murphy joined him, harmonious. Then, after a few breaths, Murphy was the next to speak.

"Ya got a stiffy."

For a second, Connor didn't believe him, but when he looked downwards he saw that he most certainly did. Poppies speckling over his whole body, he pulled the tail of his shit down over the revealing evidence. "Put some fuckin' clot'es on," he mumbled, opening the fridge for the same reasons Murphy did earlier.

Murphy did get dressed, but the most obvious thing he wore was the massive smile on his face. The night wasn't yet over, but so far, it was one of the most interesting he had in a long time.

McGinty's was crowded that night, mostly with regulars and repeating customers, half of which Connor and Murphy knew the names of. By the time they and Rocco arrived, everyone was already partially inebriated, and couldn't pronounce their names without slurring or choking. They chanted a few familiar names as well, but were drowned out by the music overhead, so they planted their rears in a couple of stools, side-by-side, the way they liked it. A fellow drinker slapped Murphy on the back, making both him and Connor flinch. Neither of them got the chance to ask him anything, because he passed out on the bar afterward.

Rocco squeezed between Murphy and the fellow who collapsed onto the bar, also giving Murphy a slap. He grunted, wondering why everyone was so interested in touching him. Perhaps it was the new clothes drawing everyone in. "What can I get you guys?" he bellowed.

"Whiskeh," Murphy told him. Connor asked for the same. Rocco ordered them what they wanted, and many more after that, until the both of them were laughing at things that weren't very funny, grabbing one another and cracking jokes with Doc, who was twice as amusing when they were under the influence.

Rocco also didn't take long to get hammered, slamming the MacManus' with taunts that they responded with mocking in various languages that Rocco couldn't speak in. "I fucking hate when you guys do that," he spat. "It's like you're fucking cheating."

"_beruhigen Sie sich_, Roc," Connor said with a snicker. "_Es ist nicht unsere Schuld, dass Sie dumm sind_."

"_Ja, in der Tat_," Murphy agreed.

"Fucking _stop!_" Rocco protested. "That's really annoying!"

"No, it's German," Connor corrected, then after a beat of silence, Murphy fell onto him in a fit of laughter, Connor draping an arm around him and giving him a powerful squeeze, enchanted by his mirth.

"Assholes," Rocco growled. "I'm Italian descent and I speak more English than you micks."

Both Connor and Murphy lowered their jaws, which almost smacked against the bar. "Well dat was uncalled fer," Connor hiccupped.

"He's jus' jealous of us, Connor. He knows we can do e'erythin' we put our minds to, and he can't do no'tin'."

"Fuck," dismissed Rocco with a toss of the hand and blow of a raspberry. "The only things I've seen you two do are, A: drinking yourselves to oblivion, and B: speaking in funny accents."

Murphy, all humor gone from his face, now hunched over in his stool like a gargoyle on its perch, glowered at their friend. "What can _you_ do, eh? Workin' for da mob don' count, ei'ter."

"I can do a lot more than you two can."

"Name one t'ing you can do dat we can't!" Connor challenged.

Rocco loomed over the bar for a few moments, mulling it over, scratching at his noodles of brown hair and cactus spines on his cheeks. "You can't play darts for shit." Puzzled, Connor and Murphy cocked a brow at one another. Then, when they both cocked equal-sized grins and giggled, Rocco swore at them again. "You think I'm being funny?"

"Well, ya are da Funny Man, Roc."

"Ya are."

Rocco reached into a basket sitting upon the bar, and removed a handful of multi-colored darts. Connor and Murphy observed his actions like spectators at a zoo's reptile exhibit. "Go on," he said, passing the darts over. "Do it." Neither of them did. "Well, come on, if you're so _proud._"

"We've ne'er seen you play a single game o'darts in the time we've known ya," Connor noticed. "I t'ink he's pullin' our chain, Murph."

"Aye," chimed in his brother, smoking a newly-lit cigarette.

Eyes pointed at the ceiling, Rocco scoffed at them. "You're asking me to _prove_ it, aren't you?" They nodded in unison, as if they were one entity sharing the same soul. "All right _boyos_. I'll do more than prove it. If I get a bull's-eye from twenty feet away, you pay me two hundred bucks."

"No way!" Murphy accosted, getting off of his stool. "Ya know we can't afford dat!"

"Well that's how confident I am, Murphy."

"Easy, Murph," Connor said to his brother, pulling him back by the tail of his shirt. Murphy peered at him, leaning his back against the bar, colliding shoulders with Connor once again. "How abou' dis, Roc? If you can do it, we'll pay fifty, we'll stop teasin' ya, and…" He turned his palms toward the skies, smirking. "I'll kiss my bro'ter."

Not only did Murphy and Rocco gape at him, but so did everyone else listening in on the conversation. "Um…" Rocco started, then gave it a minute to hang around in his thoughts. "Are you _sure?_"

"_Connor,_" Murphy whispered, trembling beneath everyone's gaze. "What da fuck are ya doin'?"

"_He's not goin' to get a damn bulls-eye from dat far."_

"_How da fuck do you know? He's sounds pretty fuckin' confident._"

Connor, with pride, patted himself on the chest. "Trust meh. He won't."

"So…" Rocco interrupted. "What do you mean you'll _kiss_ him? Like _kiss_ him, kiss him?"

"Tongue and e'erythin'." He leered when Murphy dropped his face into his hands, and clutched at his forehead.

Another long pause drifted between them as the other patrons suddenly became very interested in this bet. "Seriously?" asked Rocco, his nose lifting a few centimeters.

"Yup."

"Oh boy." He looked at Murphy, who kept his head down and refused to lock eyes with anyone in the room. "Hope you like your brother a _lot_, Murph… and if not, you're about to," he laughed out, as did several other spectators.

"I'm gonna kill you," Murphy swore to Connor. Connor only grinned. It wasn't the first time Murphy made that threat, and it usually followed something embarrassing.

"Go ahead, Roc." Connor gave the all-clear, in addition to pointing his thumb in the air. On the edges of their seats, everyone in earshot of the deal fell into a suspenseful hush, and the only sound for a while were the Irish jigs echoing from the speakers. Murphy peeked through his fingers at the dartboard, his hands and wrists stiffening, the cigarette in his mouth fizzling down.

Doc, joining in the game now that he had taken fascination with it, came to Rocco with a tape measurer and measured the maximum distance. Rocco positioned himself, taking only one dart, standing at the ready with his arm raised. Connor crossed his ankle over his knee and wagged it, and Murphy took a shot of whisky, which tasted sweeter than usual in his "final moments." Not a peep resounded between the men staring at Rocco, and when one of them shouted, "GO ALREADY," they all hushed him, including Connor.

After several minutes of preparation, Rocco rocked his wrist back and forth, pointing the dart at the board. Murphy wiped sweat from his face. Connor clenched and unclenched his fists, squeezing his fingers into his clammy palms. Murphy ordered another shot and downed it before the glass was even full. He would be falling on his ass later, but he might also soon have Connor's tongue crammed down his throat.

After lining the dart up with the red dot in the center of the board, then with the grace of an Olympic pole-vaulter, threw his wrist toward it, as well as the sailing spike. Murphy couldn't bear to look at it when he heard it strike, but when he heard the cacophony of howls and deep, drunken roars he knew what to expect when he opened his eyes.

"Who's the man?!" Rocco shouted to his viewers, who cheered him on. "Who's the _fuckin'_ man?!" A riotous drum slammed onto the bar as the other drinkers shared a moment of revelation. When the rumble of voices dimmed, Murphy peeked between his pinched eyelashes at the room, seeing a group of haunting eyes fixed on him.

"Aw, fuck," he groaned, looking at Connor, who hadn't moved or spoken since Rocco achieved his award-winning throw. "_He's not goin' to get a bulls-eye from dat faaaar_," mocked Murphy.

"Can ya blame meh?! That's some stellar shit righ' dere!"

"All right, Connor," Rocco said, his every tooth showing with his lips spread from ear to ear. "You made a deal, man."

"But…" he argued, then sighed, lowering his head. The bar went quiet again. Too quiet. Nothing could possibly be more awkward than this. "Can we… maybeh… take a rain check?"

Swaying in his seat from the number of shots he consumed, Murphy sang, "What's da matter, Connor? I'm not good enough?"

Connor, dazed, turned his eyes to his brother. "I… well… I'm not sayin' _dat_…"

"A bet's a bet, bro'ter." Several others agreed.

"Fer fuck's sake…" Connor moaned. He ordered a shot of whisky, slurped it down, then looked upon his drunken other half, who couldn't keep his balance anymore, and who also had a wicked, enamored leer painted on his red face. Connor smirked at him. "Yer right." He waved his finger, beckoning Murphy closer, and he almost collapsed atop his chest. No one said a word, but almost everyone chuckled. Murphy tipped his chin upwards toward Connor's, opening his mouth and waving his tongue. Connor hesitated.

"_I would have preferred somewhere more intimate,_" he confessed.

"Shut da fuck up and do it," Murphy encouraged, smacking his arm.

Connor didn't give him the opportunity to finish the sentence before grabbing his chin in his left hand and pulled his mouth closer to his own. Then he shoved his mouth onto Murphy's, and wrapped his tongue around the one that had been waving at him a few moments ago. Almost everyone in the bar erupted in laughter, including Rocco, who soon stopped when he saw how long they went at it.

"You can fucking stop now," he told them, but neither of them heard. "Guys, quit it! You're grossing me out, man!"

It took them a few seconds to even register they were being spoken to. Connor, without realizing he had done it, placed a hand on Murphy's face and clutched it as their jaws worked together, his tongue fighting against Murphy's, whose was enthusiastic as it snaked around Connor's. He could have sworn he heard his twin moan in ecstasy; could have sworn he felt his hands sneaking under his tight shirt. He also couldn't help the pressure building below his waist.

Something struck Connor in the head— a light, metallic object that rattled onto the floor once it bounced off of him. "Ay!" he yelled, breaking his kiss with Murphy, who frowned in disappointment. When he looked up, he was met with some shocked smiles, disgusted nose-curls, bellowing, deafening laughter and an incredulous Rocco, who seemed to be trying to assess the situation.

"You know," Rocco said when silence hit them. "If you wanted to kiss each other, you could have just said so."

"I didn't… I was jus'… it was part of…"

"Connor's jus' shy like dat," Murphy joked, too sloshed to give a shit about the consequences. Connor passed everyone a nervous smile before climbing off of his stool, hauling Murphy off of his.

"I… t'ink we'd better go now," Connor told everyone.

"Yeah, please," Rocco agreed. "Make out in the comfort of your home."

"We weren't makin' out!" Connor defended.

"Whatever you micks call it."

Connor, while supporting his brother's weight as he kept an arm swung over his shoulder, paid Rocco the fifty bucks he owed him, then helped Murphy out the door, who mumbled something about Connor being a sloppy kisser. Much to Connor's surprise, Rocco followed them out of the bar.

"Let me drive you guys home. You're trashed."

"What makes ya say dat, Roc?"

"Well, you were just making out with your brother… and _enjoying_ it." There was a giggle from the inebriated Murphy.

"We jus' live down da street," Connor said over Murphy's laughter. "We'll be all 'ight."

"Okay. Well, I'll catch you guys on the flip side." They said their farewells, and Connor dragged Murphy down the alleyways as he stumbled beside him, muttering nonsense. When he got Murphy to their apartment, he spread him onto his bed, then crashed into his own, his head and stomach spinning. He tried to relax, to shut his eyes, and turn off his mind, but he was forced awake by Murphy's startling question:

"Ya gonna finish what ya started?"


	4. Chapter 4

Shadows obscured Connor's face as he turned over on his side to face Murphy, who was lying upon his back with his arm draped over his eyes. Through the window, moonlight reached in, granting only partial visibility. Of what he could make out of Murphy's form, he could see his chest was bobbing up and down, and it was glistening with a fresh sheen of sweat. The night's weather was mild, and it became clear that his sweating was not due to being engulfed in the earlier day's heat. He was nervous. They both were.

"_What?_" Connor whispered into the blackness, not only baffled at what he just heard Murphy say, but also unsure if he heard it at all. He could have sworn Murphy had just come on to him, but that was too ridiculous to comprehend. Sure, they joked around with each other a lot, but Murphy didn't seem the least bit concerned with amusement.

"Ya heard meh," Murphy answered, even darker this time.

"I… I don' know what yer askin'…"

"Yeah ya do."

Connor, anxious, chuckled at the situation unfolding before him. It was true; he _did_ know what Murphy wanted from him, but the question was whether or not he could supply it. Would he have even bothered asking him for such things if he didn't have almost a pound of whiskey in his stomach? Connor was one to say "no," but with what happened earlier, when he watched Murphy showering, he doubted his own mind.

"W…" Words flittered from Connor's mouth as soon as his brain registered them. Suddenly, speaking to his brother was a feat. "W-why?"

"Why not?"

"Is dat a joke?"

"Admit it, Connor. Ya wanna do it."

The first thing Connor did was scoff, then he made other sounds of objection, not able to form a sentence that would best argue his point. "Do… you?"

"Fuck," Murphy snorted, dropping his arm off of his face. "I dunno. Maybeh I'm just drunk."

Connor tried to remember the last time he had sex. How old was he? Seventeen? Was it even considered "sex" with how impractical and lackluster it was? Since then, he wasn't too interested in having it. He thought before this point, he had cut his sex drive at the source, and became celibate. For years, he didn't bother seeking out a partner, as there was no point. He had everything he needed: his television, his beer, his gun, the church, and his brother. Never before did he estimate how his relationship with Murphy could exceed its already well-woven tightness. They were attached at the hip, "glued together" as ma once said. As some siblings are "night and day," he and Murphy were both night. Murphy wouldn't do half of the things he did without his brother beside him, and truth be told, neither would Connor.

For Connor, there was no one more important in his life. He would die for Murphy, and would kill for him. If that was how things already were, perhaps it did make sense for them to be closer than they already were, maybe even a little too much sense. They had almost everything in common that they needed to, a lot more than him and someone he had never met. They were a good team, supported one another, and already lived under the same roof. The more Connor thought about it, the more it seemed like it was meant to be.

As he thought it over, Murphy turned over, away from his twin. "See ya in da mornin', den."

He hated when he couldn't tell whether or not Murphy was upset about something. More often than not, he was very well-practiced at hiding his feelings. He'd sooner punch a kitten than admit when things hurt him, and Connor was accustomed to this cold shoulder approach to things, but would have preferred it if Murphy was more open with him. At least he wasn't hiding behind rage this time.

"Murph," Connor whispered to the darkness. He saw his eyes peek over the hill of his shoulder. "What's goin' on in yer head?"

"Dizziness," Murphy joked.

Connor laughed, despite it not being the answer he wanted. "If ya want… whatever it is ya want us to do… ya gotta tell me dat."

Murphy said nothing for a while, focusing his gaze back to the wall ahead. "Do I really have to spell shit out fer ya?"

"I jus' want to hear ya say it."

Murphy pushed himself up to a sitting position, palming his face, then pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it to the floor. Connor knew they had reached a pivotal point when Murphy began unfastening his torn jeans and pulled them down his legs. When he got down to his boxers, he slid them off as well, then looked upon Connor, luring him with his eyes. "I want it," he admitted.

Connor jumped to his feet and ripped his shirt off, kicking his jeans off. "Meh too," he gasped.

Murphy was elated again, exuberant at his brother's enthusiasm, and he laughed and cheered. "All 'ight! Fuck yeah!"

_====An erotic scene was inserted here in the original draft, and removed for the sake of not getting banned. It can be viewed on ArchiveofOurOwn where the full chapter is if you wish to see it: __ /works/1784197/chapters/3866452_

When his eyes were clear, he glanced at his brother sprawled out on the bed. He was gazing at him with an all new amour unshackled by an unsuspecting night of fervor. That smirk was one Connor could imagine doing anything for just to see it on his face. He mirrored it with one of his own, and sauntered back to the small bed that could barely fit the both of them, but Murphy scooted over to make room for him. When he climbed back in, lied down, and shut his eyes, he felt the stubble of Murphy's jaw and lip scratching his neck, felt his nostrils opening and inhaling, and felt the softness of his lips against his skin. Something about it made Connor so comfortable. He didn't miss Ireland anymore when Murphy was crushed against him and loving on him.

Murphy looked happy. That was rare. The only other time he saw him as happy was when he told them they'd go shooting together. Connor reached for his cigarettes in his jeans pocket and passed one to Murphy, who clamped it between his lips, and slipped one of his own into his mouth, lighting them both.

The question now was: where would they go from here? One thing was certain in Connor's mind—he liked this new thing they shared, and he could tell that Murphy did as well. His brother might consider him ridiculous, tell him he watched too many films, but there was something about their new relationship that felt necessary, perhaps even destined. It was his strong belief that he and Murphy were meant to love each other this way, that it could very well have been fate calling out to them. They were supposed to treasure each other's existence, for something of great importance would one day weigh their shoulders, and it was important that they understand the significant need to protect one another. They'd be even more inclined to do so if they loved each other more than siblings.

They both smoked, kept silent, thinking about what just went on between them. Murphy, unbeknownst to Connor, shared similar thoughts on their destiny. He couldn't explain it very well, but it felt like the start of something amazing, something greater than them; greater than the world itself. With that in mind, his attachment to Connor meant twice as much to him.

"Ya know we can't tell anyone, right?" Murphy then asked Connor, who was ripped from his daydream.

"Who would I be tellin'?"

Shrugging, Murphy lowered his voice. "Roc?"

"Why da fuck would I tell him?"

"I dunno, Connor. Jus' don' do it."

"You ashamed?"

Murphy's mouth twisted back and forth, as did the soft hints of moustache tracing his upper lip. "Dat's not it."

"It's all 'ight if ya are. It's not exactly normal."

"I don' t'ink he'd understand, dat's all."

"I'm not disagreein' wit' ya. I know he wouldn't."

"Even if we explained… dat it was sort of… I dunno."

Connor, amazed at his perceptiveness, answered, "S'pposed to happen?"

Stunned, Murphy's eyes grew round, and he nodded. "Ya feel dat, too?" Connor also nodded. "What do ya t'ink's gonna happen to us?"

Connor had no idea, but Murphy always looked to him for answers. "I dunno. I've ne'er felt dis way before."

"Me nei'ter. But some'tin's goin' to."

Perhaps that "something" could have been sleep, because Murphy didn't take long to pass out on top of Connor's chest, which was both strong enough to support him, and soft enough to be a pillow. Connor pulled the cigarette from his drooping mouth and put it out in the ashtray beside his own. Then he pulled him into his arms, which fit around him in a protective lock, and watched him as he snoozed. Before long, Connor too passed out, and his grip on Murphy never relented.

Even with hearing protection, Murphy could sense how powerful the blows of his handgun really were. The targets at the end of the corridor shredded from the impact of flying bullets, and each one he destroyed, the more liberated he felt. What made it better, however, was Connor's presence. After the night before, he thought things might get _strange_ between them—stranger than usual, anyhow. However, he felt himself rolling with it, as though they had been like that for years without knowing it.

"Four ahead o'ya," Murphy teased.

Connor leaned over toward Murphy's booth, trying to determine if he was honest about this. "No way. Yer cheatin'."

Murphy shook his head, his lips yanked into a smile. "I'm tellin' ya, I'm ahead o'ya."

"It's dis clip dey put in dere. Fifteen rounds, dat's no'tin!"

"Shut up and take it like a man, Connor."

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck ya back."

"Again? Didn't ya get enough last night?"

Magenta swarmed Murphy's face at the reminder. Neither of them had brought it up all afternoon, feeling pensive and awkward about it, as though they had just seen each other commit the worst of offenses and tried to keep it a secret. It was true that there was something incredible about the night before, something that seemed to make sense of everything they did and felt when around one another, but Murphy couldn't recall feeling such a powerful emotion before.

"Overwhelmed" was the best way to put how he felt, overwhelmed by the stimulation of needs for love and affection. Murphy, as well as Connor, was always taught that sex was for the loveless, the seedy scum of the world who fulfilled their innermost desires by beating off to the sluts of the porn industry inside of dark theaters that fit their criteria. Last night wasn't like that at all. It was…

_Beautiful._ Murphy curled his nose at that word. It didn't usually enter his vocabulary. Still, it was the best one to use. What he shared with Connor was _beautiful_, and not at all like how their mother made sex out to be. Why did she want to keep the truth away from them? And furthermore, why had Connor kept it from him? He knew his brother had sex before. He never gave him the details. Well, he supposed it didn't matter much now. Celibacy, in Murphy's mind, was still a rational practice, especially for a devout Catholic, but he wondered that now after he and Connor shared such a wonderful thing, how he'd be able to return to starving himself of that physical contact. He couldn't imagine going back now. Since spending the night with Connor, he wanted it again… and again, and again, until they had out-sexed everyone on the planet.

Murphy did have to admit that part of him had his doubts that it would work. Connor was of course the optimistic type, unlike him. He still had yet to even understand _what_ they had, let alone _how_ they should handle it. What he did understand, however, was that he wanted to hold onto it. Tight.

Connor reloaded the clip in his weapon and fired several more rounds at the targets. "I'm ahead now! Better catch up, Murph."

When Murphy had lowered his weapon and stared into space as the thoughts of their relationship crossed his mind, he didn't notice that he had. Connor seemed fine with the whole thing, even seemed happier, so he gathered he too could accept it. He wanted them both to be happy. And now, they were.

Following the gun range, they visited the cathedral, sitting again in the back pew for silent contemplation. Murphy wondered, while holding his head down, his eyes shut, and hands folded how they would look in God's eyes now. He was sure God didn't consider what they did as beautiful as he felt it was. Or maybe it was His plan all along. Murphy had no way of knowing. The Big Guy never spoke to him. It was better that way. His thoughts were loud enough without being interrupted constantly by a boom of morality.

The man upstairs never spoke to Connor either, but he had a good feeling that he was doing the right thing in His eyes, and He would continue leading them down a similar path. Murphy relied on him for more than brotherhood now that they were on their lonesome and so far away from their true home, and he too relied on Murphy for the same. They needed each other now more than ever, to sate not only their violent nature, but their carnal appetites which only recently growled with such hunger. Something happened last night, and it wasn't only sex— something that alternated their course in life, shifted gears, turned tables and made everything right and everything snap into place.

After crossing their hearts, they rose from their seat and left the cathedral, whipping out cigarettes and lighting them. "Sight seein'?" Connor proposed.

"Aye," Murphy agreed, glad he suggested it.

Connor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and walked him down the street, and for couple of days, they had nothing to worry about.

That is, until the eve of Monday, when their new landline rang. Connor, sprawled across the tattered couch like a lounging feline, couldn't pry his eyes from the television for long enough to care about who was calling. A new Clint Eastwood film was playing on their pirated cable, and he refused to miss a second of it. Murphy was just finishing up with a shower and putting some clean clothes on when he heard the ringing, and he tried to get his brother's attention, as he was sitting directly beside the damn thing.

"Connor! Answer da fuckin' phone!"

"You get it."

"Yer closer to it!"

"I'm watchin' some'tin."

Scowling, Murphy stepped across the room to pick up the phone, which by now had almost rung off the hook. Before picking it up, he gave his brother a playful slap on the head, and was scolded with a pout.

"'Lo," Murphy told the caller, speaking into the mouthpiece and ignoring the sour look on Connor's face, thinking he might burst out laughing at it.

"Murph!" It was Rocco, and the call didn't seem like a casual one. "Are you guys busy at all?"

He glanced at Connor, who was flinging his fists into the air, timing his jabs with the action hero on screen. Rolling his eyes, he said, "Not per'ticularly."

"You guys got to fucking help me."

"Easy, Roc. What's da matter?" Connor separated his eyes from the screen, now engrossed in the phone call, leaning closer to Murphy to hear the conversation.

"Someone fucking broke into my place and stole half my shit."

"Ya sure it wasn't Donna, man?" asked Murphy with a slight sneer.

"I don't know! All I know is that I came home and my place is missing stuff. Would you guys come by? I could use a little help with the inventory."

"Sure, jus' calm down. It'll be all 'ight. Come get us."

"_Thank you._" They each hung up after saying their goodbyes.

"Well?" Connor asked.

"Roc got robbed, I guess. He's comin' to pick us up."

"_Robbed._" He flinched, thinking of what it would be like to have their home invaded. Then, he wondered what the hell anyone would wish to steal from their place, unless they wanted used beer cans and cigarette butts. "He know who did it?"

"He didn't seem to. I'll put my money on his crack whore any day."

"Don't call her dat. I know she's a pain, but…"

"I'm jus' callin' her what she is! Dis isn't da first time she's done it to 'im."

"It's none of our business, Murph. Jus' like we're none of his."

Murphy couldn't argue with him on that one. He hated when he was right. "Well, whatever. He'll be here soon, so… put some pants on… and turn dat shit off while yer at it."

"It's at da best part!"

"You said dat t'irty minutes ago."

"Fine, fine."


	5. Chapter 5

From what Connor could tell of the scene, Rocco's brand new stereo system had been swiped, in addition to a leather recliner, a desktop computer, the plasma television, and according to Donna, a gram of cocaine. The assailants did leave Donna's cat, however, but Donna was too busy mourning the loss of coke to give a damn. Rocco, after showing the whole place to Connor and Murphy, took them to living room, where he pointed at the coffee table.

"Cold, heartless bastards stole my custom-made ashtray!" he lamented.

"Jeez, Roc," Connor muttered, still in awe at how empty the place looked. "M'sorry. Dis really sucks."

Murphy, who hadn't yet accused Donna of anything, kept his eyes on her as she sat at the kitchen table, makeup streaming down her face as she sobbed. When her red, tear-stained eyes lifted, they landed on the cold, cynical ones of Murphy, and she sniffled.

"Do ya t'ink your… 'boss' was involved?" Connor asked as he traversed each of the rooms, checking to see if anything else was missing.

"Nah. They don't have time for that shit. Besides, they _have_ money. They don't need to rob people. Directly, anyway."

"Have ya tried chekin' pawn shops? Dey might have just pawned e'ery'tin'."

"Not yet. That's where I was going to go once I got your guys' opinion."

"What makes ya t'ink we're experts?" Murphy wondered, turning away from Donna, who had been working over a wet, wadded tissue. "Call de cops."

Passing Murphy a sardonic look, Rocco's mouth lifted at the corners. "Sure, Murph. I'll go to the police. I can tell them about the work I do too, while I'm at it." Murphy's glare didn't seem to put him off any, and he turned back to Connor. "I guess I have to get the locks changed again. Sick of this neighborhood, sick of this city, sick of the people in it." Rocco picked up a notepad and wrote a few things down. "Is there anything else you see missing that I forgot about?"

"What abou' jewelreh?" queried Murphy, looking to Donna for the answer. She sneered at him, throwing tissues into the trash.

She slipped a "no" through her gritted teeth, wiping streaked makeup from her cheeks. "Jewelry is still here." She pulled a clip from her dark hair, letting it fall down her shoulders to help mask her face's lack of cream and powder.

"Well ain't dat convenient! Dey take Rocco's stuff but not yers?"

"My jewelry is hardly worth anything," explicated Donna, who cradled her chest for comfort.

"Dey wouldn't know dat."

Rising out of her chair, Donna inched toward Murphy with flames in her eyes and rasp in her throat. "I didn't do it, MacManus! They stole my coke, too!"

"Ya pro'lly flushed it so ya wouldn't be a suspect!"

"_Murph!_" Connor yelled over their bickering, catching both of their attention. "I believe her."

Stung by Connor's words, and feeling a little betrayed, he let out a faint huff and stormed into the kitchen. "Ya would," he accused him as he brushed by, knocking shoulders with him. Connor only shook his head at his abrasive nature. He would get over it. He always did.

"At de very least, we can go de pawn shop fer ya and see if we can find yer stuff," he comforted Rocco. He next looked at Donna and added, "Can't say de same fer yer coke."

She waved it off, unconcerned now. "They probably snorted it by now, anyway." She skulked into the living room, dropping onto the couch, as far away from Murphy as possible, afraid he might have slit her throat if Connor hadn't been there.

"All right. Thanks guys." Rocco passed him the sheet of notebook paper with the items written on it, and Connor folded it and placed it in his pocket. "Take my car. I'm going to keep looking around, see if I missed anything. I also have a make a few phone calls because some of that shit was… sort of on lease, if you get my meaning."

"We'll give ya a call on de payphone if we find some'tin." He glanced at Murphy in the kitchen, who was now reaching into the pocket of his black pea coat for his cigarettes, staring down at the floor. He slipped one into his mouth and lit it with his Zippo. "Come on, Murph." He came to his side, but refused to look at him, a trail of smoke following him as he followed Connor out the door. Once they were outside, Connor felt the tension rise between them even more now that they were out of earshot. "Yer pissed, I can tell." Murphy remained silent, sucking in nicotine and breathing it out, popping the cigarette out of his mouth to flick ash onto the pavement. "We don' have to agree on e'eryt'in' ya know."

"I know she did it," Murphy told him, examining the facts in his mind. "She's part of it somehow."

"Fer fuck's sake, Murph…" Connor sighed. "De whole world ain't yer enemy!"

Now that the conversation had taken a more personal detour, Murphy went quiet again, but didn't do so without glaring the entire time, his brow slanted in a permanent pinch. From the moment he snapped on Murphy, Connor regretted it. His brother would spend the rest of the day like this, huddled in his little shell, until he found something to blow up at, which was usually him.

"M'sorry," Connor whispered to him, trying to calm the storm waiting to destroy all that laid in its path. "I didn't mean it de way it sounded. Can we not do dis righ' now?"

"I'm not doin' anythin'," Murphy's cold demeanor voiced as he dabbed ashes onto the ground, shoving his hand into the pocket of his coat. It was cold and windy enough that day to wear it, but he had been the only one to. Connor still felt too warm to do so.

Dropping it for now, Connor put it in the back of his mind to focus on the task at hand, climbing into the driver's seat of Rocco's car and starting it up. Murphy climbed into the passenger seat, stomping his boots up onto the dashboard, leaving dusty prints on the surface. Connor would normally tell him to buckle his seatbelt, but he wanted to get to the pawn shop and back without Murphy losing it. If he could get through the day with his brother talking to him in a normal tone of voice, it'd be a good one.

Connor and Murphy visited a total of four pawn shops, none of which had Rocco's belongings, but the fifth one, the one uptown, seemed promising when Connor saw what looked to be the monitor for his computer standing on display. Connor was the first to exit the vehicle, and he only had to take a peak through the oversized windows to see additional items that looked familiar. Murphy stood beside him, chilling Connor with his vacant stares and wordless acknowledgements. He too peered into the shop, glimpsing at the treasure trove of electronics he recognized from Rocco's place.

Connor passed Murphy a handful of change. "Dere's a payphone on de corner," he told his brother. "Go give Roc a call. I'm goin' in to talk to de owner."

Murphy, still not speaking to him, took the coins and sauntered away, heading for the phone. He was grateful for the moment, needing the space to stew about the earlier conversation. As he fed some quarters into the clinging slot, he pressed the receiver against his ear, dialing Rocco's number. The dial tone bleeped, indicating the line was busy. Clenching his teeth, Murphy slammed the phone down and decided to wait a few minutes before trying again.

Something happened then— an instantaneous string of colliding events that the brothers neither predicted nor prepared for, but all the same, felt in their hearts would soon come to fruition. That day would be marked in the remainder of their lives as the turning point of their imminent destiny.

"Fuckin' whore!" bellowed an unseen individual. It sounded to have come from across the street, and was loud enough for almost the whole city of Boston to hear.

A second voice, feminine, cried, "Stop!"

Incoherent screams followed from both parties, a mess of pleads and demands, accusations and crying. Murphy detected they came from an apartment on one of the higher floors, through an open window, which he tried to look inside of. Then, the sound of shattering glass and smashing wood resonated from the building, and the woman screamed in terror.

Murphy grabbed the phone off of the cradle and started to dial 9-1-1, but was stopped when he saw the front door slam open, and caught a glimpse of a bruised, blonde woman limping down the sidewalk. Even from where he was standing, he could hear her crying for help. Murphy dropped the receiver and ran across the street, dodging cars on the way.

"Are you okay?" he panted when reaching her, helping her climb to her wobbling feet.

"My boyfriend," she cried to Murphy, clear tears raining upon the purple welts covering his face. "Please. Please help me."

The first thing Murphy wanted to do was bring her to Connor, though he wasn't sure why he felt they both needed to be there. "What's yer name?"

"Rayvie," she whimpered, unable to speak without breaking into a fit of sobs. "Please. He's going to kill me."

Helping her along the sidewalk, bracing her with the crook of his arm, he started guiding her toward the edge of the street, but didn't get far. The door to the apartment building flew open a second time, and in the doorway stood a hulking man covered from head to toe in muscles, and a number of curious scars. Murphy, supporting Rayvie's weight, turned to the man, doing his best to hide his unstable voice and shaking knees. It worked for him so often in the past, and he hoped now it would prove just as useful.

"Who's this, Rayvie?" the mountain of a man asked as he approached them, a tire iron clamped in his right hand. "Another boyfriend of yours?"

Most fights Murphy would get into were with Connor, and he had to live with him, so making up was an option. However, he could come out of this situation with more than a torn shirt or crack over the head, and he was sure no apologetic kiss would follow.

"Stay away from me, Tony!" screeched Rayvie, hiding behind Murphy, who was not much taller than she was.

"Ay," Murphy spoke up, keeping his eyes crisp and voice cool, trying his best to stretch his height. "Why don' ya calm down? T'ink abou' what yer doin'."

Tony, tapping the steel bar into his other open palm, studied Murphy for a moment before cracking a smirk and laughing. "Cute. How long have you been bangin' her? You're welcome to the little whore, if you want her. I just can't promise your cock won't fall off."

"I don' know her, or you. I'm jus' tellin' ya that ya need to back de fuck off, is all."

Twisting his thick jaw in concentric circles as though chewing on bones, Tony pointed the hunk of metal at Murphy's skull. "Here's a better idea. Stay out of business that doesn't concern you, _mick._"

Murphy's hands often acted before his brain did. Whether he smacked and hit his brother, or threw half-empty bottles across the bar, or slammed doors until they fell off the hinges, his hands sometimes developed minds of their own, determined to eliminate the offending target regardless of how little sense it made, or if it was rational or not. Once again, his hands proved they had no interest in listening to his conscience as his right hook swung for Tony's jaw, clocking him and knocking him a few inches back, causing him to relinquish the tire iron, which clanged upon the cement.

The mistake he made didn't quite dawn on him until he saw Tony's mouth tighten over his gangly teeth and his every muscle in his face squeeze into a look of pure rage. Murphy wasn't the type to back down from a fight, but he knew the outcome of this wouldn't be very good. Tony, roaring, dove for him with outstretched hands.

Connor, who had just finished talking the shop owner's ear off, stepped outside. He hoped to see Murphy there so they could get back to Rocco's and be done with this nonsense, but he didn't see him on the corner, or anywhere near the shop. He stepped over to Rocco's car in the parking lot, not seeing his twin inside of there, either. "Murph!" he called, heading for the phone on the corner to see if there was any trace of him.

"Tony, don't!" shrieked a woman's voice from across the street. Connor turned toward the source of the sounds, but didn't see anyone. Another screech and bawling followed, and Connor's concern heightened. Before looking both ways, he sped across the street, the heels of his boots smacking against the pavement and sending him into an aerial swoop onto the sidewalk. Now that he was closer to the noises, he determined the direction they came from— an alleyway between two apartment buildings. As he neared the sound of the woman's cries, another voice chimed in, one more familiar.

"Get da fuck off me, ya fuckin' wop!" Sounds of knuckles meeting skin responded Murphy's demands, which invoked groans and cries of agony.

"Go on, motherfucker! Say it again!" The man hammering blows onto Murphy was someone Connor didn't recognize, but he didn't need to know him to understand the gravity of the horrors that lay before him. "Call me a wop one more time, you motherfucking _mick!_:

Murphy, gushing blood from his nose and mouth, his shoulders and ribs on fire, couldn't utter the slur, though he had managed the first few times he sprayed it into Tony's face, encouraging him to continue the brawl. Now that he could no longer keep his head up without it spinning, Tony held him up by the collar of his coat, checking out the damage he had caused to Murphy's face.

Rayvie, who was standing on the sidelines watching the fight with a yawned mouth and rivers coursing down her cheeks, saw Connor when he entered the scene. She saw him pull the tail of his shirt him, saw the barrel of the gun that was tucked in his pants, saw him grasp it and pull it free from its secured place under his waistband, and watched as he aimed it at the back of Tony's head.

Tony, while holding Murphy up in a standing position, curled his lip in a devastating snarl, and prepared to utter something to his victim, but that's when he heard the click, felt the coldness of hard steel against the back of his skull, digging into his scalp.

"Get yer _fuckin'_ hands off my bro'ter!" Connor barked.

The moment this demand met Tony's ears, he dropped the wounded Murphy to the ground, and he collapsed in a heap onto it, coughing blood. Then, Tony raised his palms into the air, terror grasping his heart.

"Your brother?" he confirmed.

"Aye," hissed Connor, pushing the gun barrel harder against his head. Connor's index finger stroked the trigger of his weapon, his hand quaking as fury filled him from the depths of his chest.

Tony stammered, "He fucking attacked me! He punched me in the face!"

"Shut da fuck up. Get on yer knees, ya piece o'shit."

"Oh, God," Tony whimpered while kneeling to the ground. "Don't fuckin' kill me. I'm married. I have a kid."

Murphy, who could barely stand up, let alone move, braced himself on the wall as he crawled to his feet, then pressed his back against it, dabs of crimson dripping from his nose and lip onto the pavement. Once his vision came into focus, he saw Connor there, standing behind the shaking, terrified man, pointing a gun at his head. He had never seen so much anger in his brother's eyes before— his brother, who always had a pat on the back for him when he'd fail a test or a hug when he had a nightmare, looked thirsty for blood, and it was then that Murphy grasped just how much he underestimated him.

"Married?" whimpered Rayvie, who didn't seem as concerned with the weapon against her boyfriend's head as she was their love life.

"I'll show you my wallet," Tony told Connor, his hands trembling as he continued to hold them toward the skies. "I do have a kid. I have a son. Please, for love of fuck…"

"_SHUT UP!_" Connor screamed, his finger tightening around the trigger, the barrel biting Tony's skin as he created a circle-shaped crease against it. "Shut de fuck up. I don' give a fuck if ya have five families. It's _my_ fuckin' family you were jus' beatin' on, ya motherfucker."

Tony, who had reached the pinnacle of terror, pleaded with him. "I'm sorry! For the love of _fuck!_"

"Meh too," Connor announced in farewell, then squeezed the trigger.

Time stood still for a moment. Rayvie's crying had stopped. Murphy's panting had come to a halt. Both of them, after watching the violence, descended into partial madness once the gun's barrel emitted a pop and a bullet sliced through Tony's brain. Rayvie's screams were garbled, but consistent, drawn out into one shrill note, and Murphy was having a mild panic attack as he repeated the words "Oh my God," at least six times.

Connor, however, didn't react; or rather, he _couldn't_ react. That didn't just happen, did it? He was dreaming again, slaughtering hoodlums in imaginary massacres. He didn't shoot a real person just then. He couldn't have. He wasn't capable of such things.

And yet, there he was beside a crumpled body in a filthy alley, smoking gun in hand, blood on the cement. For several minutes, Connor didn't move, didn't speak, and couldn't rationalize what he had done. It replayed in his mind like broken film, until it had no meaning any longer. _Pop!_ _Thud. Screams. Pop! Thud. Screams._ For a while, Connor heard nothing else, even the sounds of reality. He didn't even feel his brother tugging on his shirt, couldn't hear him begging him to follow him down the alley to safety, nor could he smell the gunpowder or the blood that he was responsible for shedding.

Then, like an avalanche of boulders, it landed upon him, and the gun slipped from his sweating palm, landing on the pavement with a resonating crack. Mist covered his eyes, and he looked to the first person he could for solace, but couldn't look him in the eye without breaking into hysterics.

"_Connor, come on!_" Murphy pleaded with him, grabbing his arm. "Let's get da fuck outta here!"

"Oh God," Connor gasped. "_Oh fuckin' God!_"

"Connor!"

"I fuckin' killed 'im! _Murphy, I fuckin' killed 'im!_"

With what little time Murphy thought they might have left, he pulled his brother closer, grabbing his face in his hands. "Pull it toge'ter," he comforted him. "Come on, it'll be okay." Connor only continued to bawl. Murphy clutched him against his chest for a brief moment. "Ya gotta calm down, Connie. Ya gotta stay strong here."

"_Fuck!_" Connor whimpered, burying his face into Murphy's chest and neck, which were coated with his blood. "Oh God, what'd I do?"

"De docks are only a few yards from here. Let's drag 'im down dere and dump 'im."

"Murph," Connor cried, unable to regain his sanity.

"Come on, Connor!" Murphy yelled, coming unglued and cracking at the seams at the sight of Connor, such a strong individual, breaking down before him. "Don' make me slap ya!"

Rayvie, who hadn't budged since the shot was fired, continued to moan at the traumatic display. She was already terrified enough of guns, but now, she had no idea how she would cope after something like this. She also had no clue as to whether she should thank Connor or kill him. She supposed, on one hand, she might have been the one lying in the alley now if Murphy hadn't come to her rescue. On the other hand, she could _still_ be lying in the alley next to him if they decide she's a liability.

The brothers didn't seem concerned with her for the moment, so she had a feeling she might be safe. Murphy looked at her, wiping the blood from his nose. "Ay," he called to her. She turned toward him, shaking underneath his gaze. "Come wit' us."

"A-are you going to kill me?"

"No," Murphy told her truthfully. "We need yer help."

She could stay and wait for the police if she wanted. They would be there soon, and she could tell them everything, and she'd be put under witness protection from these gun-toting Irish maniacs. Or, she could follow them, help them as they helped her, and wash her hands of Tony once and for all. She nodded at Murphy, joining them, and assisted them in hauling Tony's body down the alleyway, toward the direction of the harbor. Murphy grabbed the gun off the ground and slipped it into his coat pocket, racing to Connor's side to help him clean up the crime scene.

By the time they reached the dock, late evening had fallen, keeping them in the shadows. Connor and Murphy hauled the heavy body down the wooden dock, where no one else was in sight, and they could do their business uninterrupted. They sprawled the deceased upon the creaking wood as the waves rocked against it, and prepared to toss him into his watery grave, but Connor stopped Murphy from pushing him in.

"Maybeh…" he muttered, and Murphy had trouble hearing him over the crashing water. "Maybeh we should say some'tin."

"Like what?" responded Murphy, kneeling beside his twin, who never took his eyes off of the dead man lying before them.

"I dunno. Some words." Neither of them said anything, however, only sat there, thinking on what to do next. "What about da's prayer?"

Murphy, who might have agreed to say a few things, changed his mind as soon as this suggestion was brought up. "Fuck dat."

"Why?"

Now agitated, his brother dragged his hand down and across his head as he sighed. "Because fuck 'im, dat's why."

"It's not fer _him._ It's fer de guy I jus' fuckin' shot."

Wiping blood from his mouth and spitting some onto the grass, Murphy turned away from Connor, pressing their backs together. "Fine."

While turning the dead man onto his back, Connor bowed his head, took a deep breath and clasped his hands together. "And shepherds we shall be. For Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And we shall…" He paused, dwindling on that note, unable to think of the next phrase. "Aw, fuckin' hell. Can't remember de rest of it. Ma told us dat shit e'ery night, and I've forgotten it." He clasped his face, his thoughts cloudy, his vision blurred with frustrated, traumatized waterfalls.

"And we shall flow a river forth to Thee," Murphy continued for him after a gentle exhale. "And teeming with souls shall it ever be."

Connor turned to look at him, and Murphy returned his gaze, sensing his brother's appreciation. "_In Nomine Patris, Et Filii_," he concluded, dragging his fingers in a cross motion along his chest.

"_Et Spiritus Sancti_," Murphy added.

"Right," Connor whispered, cursing that he forgot that part, too.

Then, with Murphy's help, Connor shoved the body to the dark waters below. When they climbed back to standing positions, Murphy did his best to keep his brother calm by hugging him and kissing his face. Connor put his arms around him, but he felt emotionally drained.

"What de fuck were ya doin' in dat alley?"

Murphy left the sanctity of his embrace to stare into his eyes. "Gettin' my ass kicked."

"No shit. Why were ya fightin' wit' de guy?"

Knowing that this conversation would result in a fight, Murphy didn't want to have it, especially after Connor had just finished getting done dumping off a life he ended. "Connor…" he began.

"Don' _Connor_ meh! What'd he do, eh?! Call ya names?! Call ya _mick_, or _faggot_, or any of de t'ings you go nuts o'er?!" Silence landed upon Murphy, who couldn't bear to be yelled at by him at that moment. "Fer Christ's sake, Murph! I know de way ya are! Ya gotta pick a damn fight wit' e'ery fuckin' person that pisses ya off a little!" He threw his fists into the air, turning away from the hurt in Murphy's eyes. Connor toned himself down now that he got the rage out of his system, sucking in a deep breath, and releasing it along with all of the fire brimming in his soul. "I coulda fuckin' lost ya. Ya t'ink I want dat?"

Murphy cleared his throat so that the sadness wouldn't layer his voice when he next spoke. "I was helpin' her." He pointed to Rayvie, and Connor, still looming over the water, looked behind him at her standing and watching them. "He was attackin' her and I saved her. And you…" His voice tipped, but he swallowed down the clench that tightened his windpipe. "Ya saved meh. Dat's all dere is to it, all 'ight?"

Facing the water once more, Connor grabbed his face, trying not to lose his mind. "M'sorry," he said once he was calm again. "I'm glad yer okay. I jus' dunno what we're gonna do now."

"We have to get outta here."

Connor nodded, then turned away from the water, approaching his brother at a steady stride and putting an arm around him. The weight on his wounded bones ached, and Murphy walked with a limp, but Connor had a healing touch, and he already started to feel better when his hands were on him and rubbing at his sore neck. Rayvie, gathering her composure, dragged her heels after them, hoping she had seen the last of bloodshed for the rest of her adult life.


	6. Chapter 6

One thing Rocco didn't expect was for Connor and Murphy to find where his things had been pawned. Perhaps he didn't have to worry about buying a new television after all. Another thing he didn't expect was for them to bring a woman with them, for more reasons than one. Connor and Murphy certainly didn't share his gesticulation of worship to the wonders of divine, feminine beauty, and pondered for the longest time (up until the night before) why that happened to be. He wasn't about to ask for the details on their private life, but if he had any interest in desiring the facts, he'd pry their minds until they were empty of all facts. However, he had no interest in learning the facts, because he liked them. He didn't want that to change.

What Rocco also didn't expect was see Murphy's face covered in dried blood, or to see Connor look so pale and expressionless. Normally, the MacManus twins were a riot to be around, always joking, always laughing, even more so when you fed them enough alcohol. Now, they looked near death, haunted, and terrified.

Rayvie, the woman they brought along with them to his place, began to weave an intricate tale to Rocco about her saviors, and he kept his mouth shut the entire time she told the story. She didn't mention the murder of Tony, nor did she bring up the fact that she helped them dispose of his body. Donna, who had been listening in to the conversation, joined them in the kitchen to hear the recounting of the MacManus' heroics. For "heroes," Connor and Murphy didn't look too proud of themselves, nor did they feel privileged to hold such a title.

Rayvie's story told of how the brothers came to her aid, took justice into their own hands, and beat the snot out of Tony, who fled afterward. Though her words hinted at how fearful she was of them, even now, she was glad someone rushed to her side to help her, since no one else bothered.

Donna was the first to comment when story came to a close. "My God." She took a minute to stare at Connor and Murphy, eyes wide and mouth popped. Murphy was holding a bag of ice to his nose that Connor had brought him since they arrived, and hadn't said much, and neither had Connor. Looking back at Rayvie, she asked, "What are you going to do now? You said it was his apartment."

"I can't go back there," she told her, on the verge of tears. "But I don't have anywhere else to go. My parents…" She choked. "Well, they don't want me around."

"She can stay with us," Donna said to Rocco, and it wasn't a request.

Rocco tossed his arms out to the sides, his eyes bulging, laughing out his sarcastic retort. "That's great. Because this isn't a fucking henhouse already as it is!"

"For Christ's sake, Rocco! Learn to help out your fellow human for once."

"I'm sorry, but I thought I just heard a thieving little cokehead tell me to respect other people!"

"You're such an asshole!" Helping Donna up, she took her away from Rocco before he could do any more emotional damage.

"Thanks, guys," Rocco snickered at twins, who were as still as statues. "I really needed this."

"It's not like we intended it, Roc," Connor addressed, below his own breath. "It's jus' de way t'ings turned out."

"Are you going to tell me what _really_ happened?"

They froze in place, eyes twitching back and forth now and then, Murphy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are ya talkin' abou'?"

"Come on. You guys look like shit. There's no way you got the jump on this guy. Murphy looks like a lawnmower just ran him over."

"Roc, I t'ink it's best we jus' drop it."

Throwing his palm upward, he turned away from them. "Fine. Whatever. You sticking around?"

"We should pro'lly go home. It's been a long day."

Rocco looked from him to Murphy, who appeared scarred in more than one way. His head was lowered in a signal of shame, the swelling and blood on his face a critical conjecture of the suffering he had faced, and how much worse off he might have been if he had been born alone twenty-six years ago.

"All right. I'll drive you."

Warm water rushed over Murphy's many wounds, including his throbbing ribcage, as Connor washed the blood from his face and chest. Every time a palm ran over a bruise, he winced, but standing underneath the shower alongside Connor was already a great prescription to the pain. He still hadn't done much speaking, even when they were alone, but Connor didn't require his placation. All he needed was for him to feel better after what happened, both on the inside and outside.

As Connor moved the bar of soap along his aching sides, he couldn't help but let out a groan, letting him know how sensitive the area was. Connor released his waist, apologizing to him, but Murphy didn't blame him, for anything. After all, he was sure more difficult things weighed on his brother's conscience than any of the thoughts on his own.

"Feel any better?" Connor whispered to him, finding the silence unbearable.

"A little," Murphy answered, also in a hush, though there was no need to.

"I can try to get ya some'tin. Ya know, fer de pain."

"Ya'd have to get it on de street. And I don'…" He clamped his eyes shut and clutched Connor on the shoulder, bracing himself as a twinge pulsed up and down his waist. Connor supported him, keeping him from falling, as he always did. "Don' want ya to."

"Fuck it. I'm goin' to. I don' care what ya want. Look at ya, ya can barely stand."

"Connor!" he shouted when seeing him start to step out of the shower. Connor halted as if stopped by a horn. "Stay here. Please."

Conflicted, Connor placed both hands on the back of his neck and flexed his biceps as he paced the room. Murphy needed medical attention; there was no doubt about it. Some hot water and a massage weren't going to cure him. "Murph, I can't just let ya—"

"I'm fine." The way he squeezed his eyes shut said otherwise. "I jus' want ya to stay with meh."

That was a request Connor couldn't decline, especially with the desperation in Murphy's words. What did he fear, he wondered? That he'd go on a shooting rampage, take another few lives while out there scouting for painkillers? As if he'd obtain pleasure from such things. If only life had been anything like movies, where things were simplified down to an infinitesimal speck, where everything worked out according to plan. If life was like the movies, Connor would have painkillers in his hand right now for Murphy to chew on. How he'd obtain said painkillers was left up to his imagination, and his alone, though he was blush to share it with film producers had he the chance.

He returned to Murphy, head low, but reservations high. He told him to turn around so he could wash and rub his back, which was covered in plum-like dots. Murphy did as he was asked, and hissed and moaned as Connor's palms smoothed down his skin, washing away more than just blood, but all the sins carried along with them. After he did it long enough, some of the pain dissolved, and he could sigh with relief once he was cleansed of all that ailed him.

Connor draped his arms around his waist, clutching him from behind as though he would slip from his grasp at any moment. Just from Murphy's sound of approval, he could tell he was smiling now, though it must have killed to do so. He even seemed to relax at the feeling of Connor's mouth against the back of his neck, at his declarations of his adoration through foreign tongues. Murphy returned the remarks with similar words, though his contained appreciation for Connor being there for him when he needed him.

Murphy could have fallen asleep there if he wanted, secured in Connor's clasp like a valuable item held under lock and key, but he figured it'd be best to lie down. Telling Connor he'd like to get some rest for a while, he let him go so that he could do so. Connor stood under the running water for a bit longer, feeling he had yet to be washed of the filth on his soul. 

Shutting the water off, Connor dried his skin off and dressed, taking a seat on the couch. He thought that television would alleviate his stress, but he ended up shutting it off and dwelling on what happened earlier in the evening.

"What've I gotten us into?" Connor asked the sleeping Murphy, who stirred every now and then. _More importantly, will we be found out?_

When his eyes grew too heavy to hold them open any longer, he climbed into his own bed, which he was forced to sleep in because of the lack of room to fit both of them onto one. He would have _liked_ to sleep next to Murphy, but they had to work with what was available to them. As soon as his eyes were closed, he went to sleep, and it was not at all a restful night.

An obsidian gloom stretched along the street as Detective Malone reached the alley in question, the one where eyewitness statements claimed a murder occurred. Before any detective work could be done, he acquired some caffeine and breakfast from the shop up the street, a favorite of his that he frequented, especially on rainy days like today. A few of his colleagues were already at the scene, staring wordlessly at the puddles of blood on the pavement, drinking their own cups of Joe that they bought from places Malone would only visit if he wanted to start his day drinking burnt piss.

"What have we got?" he asked the first detective he saw, Dolly, whose receding hairline seemed especially sweaty that morning.

"We're having the blood sent in, but there's no body," he told Malone, a sour taste in his mouth that always seemed to appear when he was around. Malone was a good cop, but he found his mannerisms unpleasant, as well as his alcoholic odor. "Yet, anyway."

"Any idea at all whose blood it might be?" He lifted his unnecessary shades from his green eyes and rested them on his slick, brown hair, sipping his coffee and placing his free hand into the pocket of his tan trench coat, one that hung down to his ankles.

"All we know is that they're samples from two separate individuals."

Malone hadn't heard him, because something about the scene bothered him, something that didn't concern the other detectives on the force. He had been to these apartments before on a job separate from that he served at the moment— he knew the address, knew a lot of the people that lived there, and had a bad feeling that the victim in this case was also someone he knew of. Malone had more than one particular interest in the case, and he'd know why before the afternoon ended.

"What do the neighbors say?" Malone queried as he paced around the caution tape surrounding the spatters of blood.

"Many report having heard screaming and fighting prior to hearing a gunshot," Duffy continued with a sigh. If Malone had stopped by the scene earlier rather than going to breakfast, he might not have been forced to explain it to him. "Ethnic slurs were used."

"Like?"

"Wop. Mick."

"Ah. Always wanted to see an Italian and Irishman go at it." He grinned at his own joke, but Duffy wasn't laughing. "Anything else?" Another slurp of his coffee had Dolly cringing at the sound.

"Nine mil casing and a tire iron on the sidewalk."

Nodding with approval, Malone stepped away from him, looking up at the walls of the buildings the alley ran between. Detective Greenly was staring down at the pools in the same manner a child stares at a life-threatening wound on their friend's arm. It was his first assigned case, first day out in the field, and so far, he hadn't taken it well. From what Malone had heard of Greenly, he was an excellent police officer, but that was the only "excellent" thing about him.

"What are you looking at, Greenly?" Malone confirmed with him as he snuck up behind him. Greenly, startled, leapt into the air along with his heart.

"Uh…" he breathed, taking a moment to blink. "There's… blood?"

First, Malone peered at the blotches upon the ground, then looked back at Greenly, who shook when their eyes met. "You sure?"

"Looks that way to me?"

"Could be tomato juice. Maybe you should lick it."

Malone hadn't been the first detective to tease him since his promotion. It seemed that since getting the job, everyone on the force was determined to treat him like crap, and have a wild time doing it. He rolled his eyes at Malone, facing him. "I know what blood looks like, okay?"

"Just checking," giggled the older, taller man, taking another drink of coffee as he brushed past him. "Looks like you do have the skills of a detective after all." While he wasn't looking, Greenly jabbed his middle finger into the air, directing it at Malone's back.

Malone continued down the alley, scrutinizing the ground, studying a strange pattern of blood drops that trailed all the way to the rear of the buildings, toward the dock. He clicked his tongue and shook his head as he followed them all the way to the dock, where they abruptly end.

"I think I may know where our body is!" he shouted to the others. The first to rush over was Dolly, whose eyes couldn't get any wider, even if they popped out of his skull.

"The dock is right by the crime scene," Dolly said to himself, aghast. "Why would the killer do this?"

With a shrug, Malone finished his coffee, then chucked the empty cup into the water. Dolly grimaced at the act. "Our perp is amateur. They've never done this before. Maybe this was the only thing they could think of. Call it in, get them to sweep the bay. The vic might have floated downstream."

Glowering, Dolly didn't budge from his spot, nor did he retrieve his radio from his belt. Malone, wondering what was keeping him, stared at him. "What are you, my lieutenant now? _You_ fucking call it in."

Smirking, Malone tucked his hands away into his pockets. "Someday," he threatened, though Dolly thought he referred to someday being his boss. He fished out his radio and made the call, heading back to the taped off area. Once again approaching Greenly, he uttered, "I'm going upstairs to the apartments, ask some people some questions. Can you handle staying down here and playing with the big kids?" Greenly said nothing, only glared. "Good!" With that, he left the alley and headed around front and entered the building.

Questions were the last thing on Malone's mind now. What he desired to discover was if his speculations were correct. He wouldn't tell the others, knowing it would affect not only his career, but his freedom, and if he had been right about what might have happened at the scene, he would have a lot more to worry about than finding a perpetrator.

Rain hammered on the windows walls of the apartments as he ascended the steps to the top floor, where he found the apartment he was looking for: the one belonging to Tony Abbiati. The first of many bad signs was that the door was cracked open. The second was that no one answered when Malone tapped on it. Withdrawing his gun, he pushed the door open wider, stepping into the empty room, where shards of glass were scattered upon the carpet alongside strewn objects. A shelf had been toppled over, one that might have been a bookcase.

"Shit," Malone whispered, checking each of the rooms for signs of life. Holstering his weapon, he paced the living room, assessing the situation. Tony must have found out. Maybe he staged his own death and fled the country, and could be miles away by now. If he did know, he'd be telling as many people as he could of his unscrupulous practices, and that was a best case scenario. "_SHIT!_" he hollered, stopping his pacing for a moment to pull at his hair. Now he wondered who tipped him off, who sent him the message. Maybe the guy's wife set him up, knowing he was corrupt, and tried to get him imprisoned. He'd have to visit the bitch again and ask her a few questions. Maybe her husband reported back to her since the incident. He'd get his answers, even if he had to use force.

For now, Eric Malone would rule nothing out until he had all of his ducks in a row. It could be that Tony really had been whacked by someone else. If that had been the case, did they know about him? Were they coming after him next? He wouldn't give them the opportunity.

Whatever was going on here, he was involved, whether or not they fished a body from the bay.

Connor and Murphy had no interest in speaking to their co-workers that day, nor did they wish to explain why Murphy had a new collection of scars. The whispers indicated that they thought Connor responsible, and Murphy only responded with carefully constructed antagonizing looks at the very premise of Connor doing such a thing. Still, no one talked to them personally, nor did they butt into their business, though the room was filled with curious murmurs.

On their walk home, Connor bought them a six pack of beer for them to drown their sorrows in, but it would only provide temporary relief. By the day's end, Murphy was in less agony from his bruises, which Connor had attempted to pray away. They distracted each other with a game of cards, allowing for their lives to return to normal, in which they bantered and, when the timing was right, flirted with one another.

"Oh, fer fuck's sake," Murphy scoffed when Connor won a poker game against him. "Do ya really wanna do dis all night?"

Connor, raising an eyebrow at him, chuckled. "Whatever do ya mean, Murph?"

"Dere are better ways of entertainin' ourselves."

Lowering the cards he had in his hand, Connor leaned back in the old, dilapidated chair that looked as though it could fall apart any second now. "Whaddya wanna do?"

Annoyed that he wasn't catching the hint, or maybe he was and trying to hide it, Murphy pointed his thumb behind him at the mattresses on the floor.

Now grinning, Connor exclaimed, "Really!"

"Unless… ya know…" Murphy cracked the top of a new beer and sipped from it, looking up at Connor with big eyes. "You don' wanna."

After all they had been through the past couple of days, it seemed like sex truly would have been the best aid for helping them forget about it. "What abou' yer bruises?"

"I can handle it."

Connor took his word for it. He lifted from his chair, shoving it back a few feet, and Murphy got up as well, who struggled to climb out of his shirt, which Connor helped him out of, kissing him the entire him he assisted him with it. Though he wanted to figuratively tear Murphy asunder, he remained gentle to refrain from exacerbating his injuries, despite the difficulty in doing so. Connor was the first of them to dive onto one of the beds, and Murphy joined him as soon as he managed to shove his torn jeans off.

A collision of skin, sweat, and saliva was all it took to invigorate their carnal sides. Murphy sat upon Connor, riding upon his bucking hips, glazed in sweat, and it didn't matter in the least that his sides burned each time he was lifted, for he had soon learned he loved nothing more than this. Pain could come in waves all it wished, but he longed for these moments more than anything else. His cries were those of joy and at the agony tearing through his wounded body, but it was all worth it to hear Connor's Gaelic expressions of fondness and affection.

"_Is breá liom tú, deartháir daor__*****_," Connor gasped when the conclusion was in reach, and it would be a wondrous ending indeed.

Murphy, high from both his physical attention and words, repeated them back, but Connor had trouble hearing him over his elated cries.

A high-pitched ring interrupted them. They both stopped moving as though eyes were on them, those other than God's, and their eyes fell on the phone next to the couch. It rang a second time.

"Fuck it," Murphy told Connor. "I'm sure dey'll call back."

Connor wished to high heaven he could continue what they were doing, but he had to get serious for a second. "It might be important."

"More important den dis?"

"Aye," grunted Connor, helping Murphy off of his lap, who made disapproving sounds as Connor ran toward the door and grabbed the phone off of the hook, panting and heaving into it. "'Lo?" he said, wiping the sweat from his spiked hair.

"Hi," said a deep, masculine voice. "May I speak to a…" a pause, then, "Connor MacManus, please?"

The sweat moving down Connor's chest, stomach, and groin chilled, as did his skin. His erection didn't take long to shrink. "A… aye? Speaking?"

"My name is Detective Eric Malone. I'm investigating a murder and would like to ask you a few questions."

_Oh Lord._ Connor's heart doubled over, as did his stomach. _How did they find me?_ "M-murder?"

"The owner of Johnson's Pawn Shop said you were in his shop that day. You gave him your name and number, said you had a friend with belongings that were pawned there."

Puffing and panting, Connor agreed with a, "A-aye."

"You were close to the scene, so we're gathering you might have some information for us. Would you mind coming down to the station?"

"No." He swallowed. "I could. I jus'… don' have a car."

"I can arrange for you to be picked up. Give me your address please."

Connor told it to him, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "How long will it take?"

"A car should be there in about ten minutes. We'll speak shortly, Mister MacManus."

Connor hung up without answering him, then looked at Murphy, who appeared concerned, hearing the worry in his brother's voice. "What was dat abou'?" questioned Murphy, already unsettled by Connor's obvious distress.

"Dat was a detective." Murphy's eyebrows rose. "He wants to ask me some t'ings about the murder."

"_What?!_" Murphy threw himself off the bed and stepped over to Connor. "How do dey know?!"

"Dey don'. Dey t'ink I'm a witness."

"What are you gonna tell dem?"

Connor, taking a seat on the couch, released a sigh now that he had caught his breath. Murphy sat down beside him, gazing at his face, waiting for a reply. "No'tin."


	7. Chapter 7

Inside the interrogation room, the air was stuffy, though not as rancid as that within his and Murphy's apartment building, and clouded from cigarette smoke as he almost finished off his pack. The rain had picked up a considerable amount since earlier that afternoon, and thunder shook the walls ten minutes after he had arrived. One report was heavy enough to rattle the fluorescent fixtures and two-way mirror.

Tapping his burning cigarette in the provided ashtray, Connor waited with bated breath for the detective to enter the room and start firing off questions. Connor felt trapped between two courses of action: one where he chooses to lie to Malone about what he saw on the street that day and thus try to steer the investigation away from him and Murphy, and the other, where he tells him the truth. The saint within him wanted to confess. The brother and lover within him wanted to stay out of a cell to keep an eye on his family.

At last, the steel door to the room squealed open, and Eric Malone strolled in, clutching a briefcase and series of folders, as well as a cup of fresh coffee. When he set eyes on the auburn-haired younger man, he felt the most surreal sense of Déjà vu sweep over him. He knew it couldn't have been possible, but he felt as though he and Connor already knew each other— or that they soon would. Brushing it off for now, assuming he knew someone with an identical appearance, he took a seat in front of him opening the folders.

"Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Mister MacManus," Malone told him, waving the cigarette smoke from his face.

"Connor."

Nodding, he repeated, "Connor. I'm going to record this conversation." Connor nodded, giving the okay. Malone hit the red button on the tape recorder before clearing his throat. "You were across the street at Johnson's Pawn Shop during the incident. According to the statement of the owner, you were leaving the shop around the general time the incident is reported to have taken place." He paused and waited for a response, looking up at him as he shifted in his seat with discomfort.

"Aye," Connor admitted, a cough following.

"Aye… that's 'yes' right?"

Connor tipped his eyes upward, tagging a drag off his cigarette and shaking his head. Then, with a thick, American accent that John Wayne would laugh at, said, "_Yes._"

Malone laughed. "Convincing."

"Thank you, pardner."

Another laugh. "You'd be a riot at parties."

"Well, dat's what my drinkin' buddies tell meh."

Getting past the amusement of their conversation, Malone addressed what he really wished to know. "Anyway. So, you've confirmed you were leaving the shop at that time. You had to have heard what went on."

"Why's dat?"

"Well, the shop owner reports that he saw you run across the street. The incident took place across the street, in an alleyway."

"Dat right…?" Connor pondered, tonguing his cheek.

"Aye," Malone said with a smug grin.

"Well…" Sweat pushed through his every pore as he tried to come up with a viable story. No matter what he came up with in his head, none of it sounded close to realistic. He wondered who else might have seen them that mentioned his presence to the police, or who saw him pull out a handgun from his belt and shoot an Italian in the back of the head because he roughed up his brother. "I… I did hear some'tin'. Some screamin'. Two guys fightin'."

"Did you _see_ anything?"

"Not really. I didn't wanna get involved, ya know?"

"So, you ran across the street, I'm assuming because you heard the commotion, and you just stopped there? Didn't go down the alley, didn't use the payphone on the corner to call for help?"

Connor lowered his head, as well as his eyes, lighting another cigarette with his Zippo. What could he do at that point to keep his ass out of jail long enough to buy himself time? "I…" He sighed out a wisp of smoke, which Malone waved away. "I…" Malone set his elbows on the surface of the table and folded them over each other, giving him an oppressive stare as he waited. Connor then shrugged, flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, and said, loud and clear, "I plead de fifth."

Now sinking in his seat, Malone passed Connor a frustrated expression, one of impatience and desperation. "The fifth…" he repeated, rubbing his jaw.

"Aye. I know my rights. Dat's one o'dem."

As he sighed, parts of the long, dark hair covering Malone's forehead drifted upward as air caught it. "You could have told me over the phone, _Connor_ that this would be a giant waste of my time."

Agitated by his abrasive approach, Connor lifted his chin, finishing his cigarette. "I s'ppose. But den I wouldn't have met such a _charming_ lad such as the likes of yourself, Detective Malone."

With crimping eyelids and a furrowing brow, Malone responded through gritted teeth, "Indeed. One more thing, Connor, and I know you've chosen to retain your right to remain silent, but I want you to keep this in mind: have you ever been called a 'mick' before?"

"Oh, aye."

"Does it make you angry?"

"Not per'ticurlarly. No."

Feeling he had smacked into a brick wall, Malone let it go. "All right. I'll have you taken home. In the meantime, don't leave the city. We're going to need statements." Studying Connor's every move, Malone, shook his hand, feeling just how clammy and sweaty it was.

_You're guilty as hell,_ Malone guessed._ You're in on this somehow. What do you know about me?_

As Connor stood up, sticking his pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket, Malone passed him a business card with his name and number on it. "If you have any questions or any more information for me."

Connor took the card, but didn't acknowledge that he'd use it, only slipped it in his pocket with the rest of his things. Malone guided him out of the room and escorted him out of the station, where he was then taken back to his home.

"We shall meet again, Connor," Malone said to no one other than himself. Somehow, he knew it was true.

Connor breezed into the apartment as soon as he got off of the lift, shutting the door and twisting the rusted lock, which thereafter loosened and struck the floor with a thud. "Fantastic," he snorted.

Murphy, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw him, had gotten dressed by now. He hopped over the beds, shoved a chair out of the way and huffed, "I t'ought fer sure ya weren't comin' back."

"You and meh both." He patted Murphy's shoulder, as well as gave his cheek a firm stroke. "He knew I did it. I could see it in his eyes."

"What are we goin' to do?"

"Dere's not really a whole lot we _can_ do. Jus' have to wait it out… hope it all blows o'er."

Murphy wasn't about to run with such a plan. "Come on, dat's stupid. Let's leave de country! Go back to Ireland!"

"I'm not runnin' from dis. I'm not givin' myself up willingly, but I can't hide, ei'ter. Sure, I was protectin' ya, but de guy said he had a family. He was a fa'ter. A husband. I destroyed dat."

Murphy doubted Connor's rationality. He felt guilty, and he didn't blame him, but in his eyes, Tony was just another scumbag that needed to eat a bullet. "It was a crime o'passion, Connor! Ya weren't t'inkin' straight!" He jabbed his forefinger against his head to intensify his argument.

"Does dat make it any better? I don' really t'ink so. His kid doesn't have a parent because o'meh."

"And ya would have been without a brother because of 'im."

Connor kept his head bowed, not wanting to look his twin in the eye. "Coulda scared de guy. Didn't have to kill 'im."

Giving up, Murphy sat on the couch, holding his head down. "Fine. Have it yer way. When yer in cuffs tomorrow, don' look to meh."

"Don' be like dat. I have my reasons, Murph. As do you."

Nothing else was to be said on the matter. Murphy dropped it, not wanting to get into another fight, but he also didn't want Connor to get arrested; or, worse yet, the both of them. At least if they were both imprisoned, they'd be together, but prison was one place Murphy couldn't imagine surviving in.

Now that the bickering had stopped, Connor rested on his mattress, folding his hands behind his head. Murphy returned to his bed as well, saying nothing more to Connor for the night, shielding his discontent, as well as his anxiety. If he couldn't influence his brother, no one could. Connor, however, was convincing in his arguments, as well as strong. Sure, sometimes his ideas were foolish; Murphy had accepted that long ago. His brother was too idealistic sometimes, and for years, he rolled with it. One of them had to be the yin, the other the yang. It was the balance of all things.

In this instance, however, Connor could be apprehended, thrown into a cage, and he might not see him again for years. They weren't meant to be separated. They were one unit, he and Connor—one could not survive or even exist without the other.

For hours, Murphy couldn't sleep. In the middle of the night, he got up and prepared to go out for a long walk, hoping to clear his head. He didn't get two feet toward the door without rousing his twin.

"Where ya goin'?" murmured Connor, who Murphy could have sworn was still asleep when he asked.

"Walkin'. I can't fuckin' sleep."

"C'mere."

He almost decided not to listen to him, but a force drew him near. He pulled his coat off, and took a seat on the bed next to Connor, facing away from him. Connor sat up and held him, yanking him toward his chest, letting the breath out of him.

"I don' want ya to worry," Connor said, clinging to him, mindful of his injuries.

"How can ya tell meh dat?" Though he was stressed, he calmed when Connor hugged him.

"Jus' trust me." He squeezed him tighter. "Listen to meh. Everythin' will be all 'ight."

In the way Connor said it, Murphy almost believed him. "How do ya know?"

"I dunno. I jus'… feel dat it will."

This wasn't the first time that Connor had such "feelings," and most of the time, Murphy shared them. On the other hand, half of his feelings were insane and made little to no sense to him. Still, he would heed his brother's words. Sometimes, Connor didn't know a thing, and other times, he was surprisingly bright and aware.

"All 'ight."

Releasing him, Connor lied back down, relaxing once more, hoping Murphy's concern was vanquished, at least for the rest of the night. If only his worries were as easy to shoot away as it was a human life. Murphy hesitated, thinking on what Connor had told him, then crammed himself into the bed next to him, shoving Connor off of it in the process with the lack of space. Connor, amused, laughed as he slipped off the edge.

"Dere's no room fer yer fat ass!" he giggled.

Squinting at him, Murphy managed to sneak a smile onto his face. "Yer da fat one. Always were."

"Ya weighed nine fuckin' pounds when ya came outta ma! I weighed seven!"

"Ya also eat twice as much as meh."

"Aye, well, ya drink more beer den I do."

Warning Connor with a threatening point of the index finger, he claimed, "Gettin' a scale tomorrow and settlin' dis."

"Aye," laughed Connor. "De truth shall be known."

Another couple of days, and a body still hadn't been recovered. The pills Malone ate like candy didn't help ease his nerves. Where was Tony now, and what did that Irish punk know about him? Were they in on it together? So many questions and so few answers, and above all, not enough minutes in the day. It was time to get his hands dirty, the old fashioned way.

The quaint, fifties style suburbia was not Malone's style. All of the bright colors, the waving neighbors, the picket fences and barbeques were too much for him. When he had to stop to avoid hitting a kid riding on his bicycle, he laid on the horn so hard that some people peeked out of their windows to get a look at what was going on. Once the dazed child was out of his way, he parked in the driveway of the Abbiati house, where he saw a car in the driveway—Sheryl Abbiati's. He climbed out of his vehicle, strolled to the front door and rang the doorbell. It was Sheryl who opened the door, and at first she grinned when she saw him, but when his icy eyes met hers, she was no longer pleased by his visit.

"We need to talk," he said, his tone venomous.

She pulled the door open, and he pushed his way inside of her home. "What happened? Is he dead?"

"That's exactly why I'm here, Mrs. Abbiati. Please. Sit." She did, on her sofa. "It seems your husband has gone… missing." Apprehensive, she hunched her shoulders and lowered her head. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is… would you?"

"He wasn't at the apartment?"

"No. There were signs of domestic violence, but he wasn't there. We also found some blood in the alley near his apartment. It was a match."

Sheryl didn't seem worried for her husband's life, but rather, something else. "I take it you didn't find his body."

Malone sat down in an adjacent chair, crossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap. "Not yet. That's why I've come to you. The whole thing seems rather suspicious. I think someone tipped him off that there was a hit on him."

Just from his calculating looks, Sheryl already knew who he suspected. "You think _I _did?"

His eyebrows lifted, but his eyes remained partially shut. "Did you?"

"Why would I tell my husband I want to kill him?"

"Glory. Fame of capturing the 'corrupt cop,' recognition at your little book club you always go to?"

Uncomfortable at his indication, and that he had so much information on her personal life, she stood her ground. "I don't know how he found out if he did, but I didn't say anything. You think I want the asshole running around with fifteen different sluts a night when I'm cooking his dinner and raising his child? It's not the sort of thing that divorce or therapy will cure. The man is a piece of shit."

"Understandable, Mrs. Abbiati. Still, it doesn't explain anything. If someone else hit him, it's too much of a coincidence. They had to have known something."

"How? No one talks."

"Exactly what I'd like to know. It could be that he staged his own death, knowing I was coming for him." Sheryl cursed under her breath, and Malone constructed his next question with care. "Did he know anyone that was Irish?"

It took her a few minutes to think it over. "Yeah. Lots of people. One of the girls he was screwing behind my back was Irish."

"Any of them his friends?"

With a chortle, she answered, "Hell no."

Malone muttered, "I was afraid of that." Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, until Malone came up with something. "I've got an idea." Sheryl was all ears. "Talk to the press. Tell them your husband is missing. Spring up some tears, too, if you can. The public loves that shit. Get your kid on there if you can, have him mention it. If he did run away, and he sees you both on television pleading for him to come home, it's sure enough to grab his attention, maybe even pull him back here. If he was killed by someone else, the perp might come clean to me. It's a win-win scenario."

"Good idea," she told him. "I'll call up every station I know of."

"Papers, too," he told her, firm and stern. She nodded. "Make it _convincing_, now. Definitely bawl your eyes out."

"I'll think of my cat."

He was confused, but not curious enough to question it. "Whatever works." When he rose out of his seat, Sheryl rushed to the door to open it for him. "Until he's found, I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you." He grabbed the base of her chin in his oversized palm, and she flinched. "I'll know." She nodded, then he made his exit, slipping shades over his eyes as he made for his car. His next visit was the MacManus residence.

Malone didn't need to force the door open when no one came to the sound of his knock, because it looked so worn and busted that he only needed to give it a gentle shove. With his first step into the loft, he got a whiff of the sickening aroma of old beer and at least three hundred smoked cigarettes, which his gag reflex weakened at.

A creak echoed with each step he took, as if the floor couldn't support his weight. Passing the full ashtrays and scattered cans upon the small corner table, he searched underneath the mattresses on the floor for anything inconspicuous. That's when he spied the gun cases sitting underneath the sofa, hiding from view. "He-llo," he chimed, crawling toward them. Sliding them out from under the couch, he cracked one open, seeing the black grip and steel barrel of a nine millimeter caliber pistol.

Feeling he had just hit the jackpot of a lifetime, Malone snapped the case shut and scooped it off the ground, preparing to leave with it. He froze when he heard the sound of two young gentlemen laughing, and the roar of the lift coming to a slamming halt. He rushed for the door, hiding behind it, drawing his own weapon from its holster. The door to the loft smacked open, and more cigarette smoke stung his eyes as two men strolled in.

"He's got it in for meh, I'm tellin' ya," Connor was saying to Murphy.

"Dat's because yer too busy playin' pranks on meh to do any work! One o'dese days, I'll get ya back."

"What is dat, eh? I work!"

"De hell ya do. I'm carryin' yer ass."

"Oh, blow meh, would ya?"

Their conversation ended, and they chuckled. Murphy grabbed Connor by the collar of his shirt and yanked him closer, then crashed their lips together, and was met by a series of pleased moans from Connor, who grabbed both sides of his face as he shoved his tongue into his mouth.

Malone, watching the scene from the doorway where they hadn't yet seen him, pulled the hammer back, which made a soft click, but it was one that was loud enough for one of them to hear it.

Murphy was the first to turn in the direction of the sound, seeing the looming stranger hovering by their door, holding a gun and pointing it and his brother.

_"CONNOR!_"

Connor spun around, but was shoved to the ground before he could even tell what was going on. Murphy dashed toward Malone, his hands clenched, the depths of his stomach molten, as he dove for Malone and shoved him against the wall, cramming his right arm against his throat and pressing his head against the wall.

Malone coughed and dropped his gun, as well as the case in his other hand, and every time he tried to speak, Murphy pushed him harder against the wall. "Who de fuck are ya?! What de fuck are you doin' here?!"

"Murph," Connor gasped as he climbed back to his feet. Murphy turned his head to glimpse at him. "He's a detective."

Murphy, still holding him against the wall, reached into his pockets, searching for ID. He ripped his wallet from the inside of his coat, flipping it open. "Malone," he confirmed, and the detective nodded. He released him, letting him drop, and Malone grabbed his throat and coughed. Murphy grabbed the case from the floor, moving it farther away from the man.

"What're ya doin' in our house, detective?" asked Connor, wiping Murphy's spit from his mouth.

Once he straightened his posture, Malone brushed the dust off of his sleeves. "I'm allowed to be if I believe I have just cause."

Murphy spat at him, "Bullshit."

"Does that gun belong to you, Mister MacManus?"

Connor and Murphy looked at one another, wondering which one he was speaking to for a moment. "Aye," Connor admitted.

"Then it looks like we're going to have to have another little chat."


	8. Chapter 8

Eric Malone wasn't determined to take part in the staring competition Murphy seemed invested in having with him. The guy never took his eyes off of him, as if he was thinking of a thousand different ways to tear or blow his head off. It wasn't Murphy he was interested in—not yet, anyhow. Connor wasn't giving him the evil eye like his brother was, but he never dared to look away from him, either. Malone, while rubbing his sore throat, carried on the conversation in the same manner two friends discussed making a date for barbeque.

"A nine mil casing was found at the scene. That looks like a nine millimeter to me, Connor."

Connor used what little emotional strength he had left to scoff at his attempt at frightening him. "We both know dat doesn't prove anyt'in'."

"Maybe not. But there's a substantial amount of evidence piling up that points you to it… and the pile keeps getting bigger. I'm going to have to take the gun with me." What he didn't tell them was why. It wasn't to be used as evidence in a trial.

Murphy took a step closer to him, and Malone backed away, fearing the look in his eye. "He has an alibi, okay?"

That couldn't be. Connor himself told him he was there. "I didn't get your name."

"Murphy. Murphy MacManus."

There was a contemplative beat of silence following this administration of very odd information. "Your name is _also_ MacManus?"

"Aye. I'm his bro'ter."

"His… _brother._" He eyed Connor, who bowed his head and scratched his neck. "O… kay." He didn't ask any questions. He'd rather hump a cactus than get the details on that relationship. "What kind of an alibi?"

"I was dere, wit' 'im. He didn't kill anybody."

"No offense, Murphy… can I call you Murphy?" Murphy shrugged a "whatever." "But that means shit to me. You're his brother. Why wouldn't you lie for him? You have every reason to be biased."

"Murph? _Biased?_" Connor chuckled.

"Aye. I know scumbags when I see 'em." He squinted at Malone in particular.

"I'm… sure you do." Malone cleared his throat, which continued to ache. "Well, if you're willing to make a statement, I'd take it. Just know that you could be in for a lot worse if you're lying to me."

"Take meh to the station if dat's what ya need to do."

"Not yet. If the casing from the site matches your brother's gun, I won't need you. See how that works?" All of the demons in Hell didn't craft as wicked of smirks as he did then.

"Why am I not surprised at de way de law works around here?"

"Law? I'm above the law, kid. Keep that in mind."

Murphy, affronted, turned to his brother repeating the word "kid" in a breath. Connor held him back, thinking he might dive for Malone then. "What is it ya want, Malone?" he negotiated.

Thinking of the best way to answer, he chewed on a sore inside of his cheek while waiting for the right words to come to him. He couldn't give too much away, or he'd never find out what occurred. "I just want to know what happened to Tony Abbiati. That's all." Neither of them acknowledged his determination, or seemed influenced by it. "Give me the gun, please."

Murphy held it out of his reach, but Connor nudged him with his elbow, encouraging him to hand it over. While growling out quiet curses, Murphy passed the case to Malone. He returned to Connor's side, keeping his head low. If his sorrow could speak, it'd tell Connor how sorry he was, and that he tried his best. Connor patted his back to comfort him, but it didn't help.

"Thank you, boys. I'm sure we'll be in touch." With a wink and a smile, he vacated the loft, leaving them both daunted and speechless, and their twin hearts sunk to the soles of their work boots.

As soon as Murphy heard the door of the lift slam shut the elevator descend, he ran toward the corner of the room, grabbed the small card table by the legs, lifted it from the ground and threw it across the room. Connor didn't bat an eyelash at it. It was a mild storm compared to what it was building up to, and it was nothing he hadn't seen before. Murphy didn't stop working on the table until all four of its legs were torn from it and he was beating the walls with them, roaring with rage each time they smacked against the tiles. Connor lit a cigarette and puffed at it while Murphy ran rampant around the apartment like a funnel cloud and destroyed all he came in contact with, tossing cans, punching walls, turning over whatever furniture they owned until the place could hardly be recognized.

About ten minutes later, Murphy had nothing left to tear apart. Heaving and gasping for air as the high of adrenaline quelled, he dropped to the ground upon his knees, succumbing to premature grief. A quarter-full bottle of whiskey rolled toward him, and he scooped it up, twisted the cap off, chugged it, then threw the bottle against the wall. Surprisingly, it withstood the throw, as well as the landing.

When the storm passed, Connor approached his brother with cautious steps. Murphy allowed him near, but his breathing remained jagged. When Connor kneeled beside him, Murphy turned his soaking eyes away from him. All Connor could do at this point was wrap an arm around him and attempt to abolish his tears with affection.

Waking up was a challenge in itself, but going to work was an even greater feat. Connor didn't manage to get much sleep the night before, and neither did Murphy, whose quick cutting managed to reach dull, amateurish tempos. The whistle for the first break of the day sounded, and Connor left the cutting station to hide in the break room. Murphy hadn't said much to him since Malone took his gun, and he didn't blame him. Soon, he may or may not have to say farewell to him, and it was hard enough for him to deal with that, let alone any of the other pressures they had to deal with.

The break room was empty, which was a good thing, because Connor had no interest in speaking with anyone. To his relief, a television provided him enough of a distraction while he finished off a pack of cigarettes he just bought the previous day. Usually Murphy joined him on his break and smoked outside with him, and he was saddened by their distance now. He wanted to talk to him about it, but he knew he wouldn't get much out of him about how he felt. His wrecking the apartment was enough to get his feelings across, anyhow.

The movie he watched while relaxing for his fifteen minute break was an action film he once enjoyed. It seemed so ridiculous and pointless now. What were movies, anyway? They were just poorly constructed bits of story and special effects, and almost always filled with unacceptable casting choices. There was a time when Connor wanted to be an actor—to join his favorite stars on the red carpet, maybe win an award or recognition for playing some badass hero that stopped a lot of bad guys from evildoing. The thought broke his heart when he returned to his childhood for a moment, recalling the way his mother would always suffer through horrible screenplays he had written and acted out for her with Murphy, who was nowhere near as interested in being in the show. He'd always have to slap him on the arm to get him to say his lines, and he'd grumble and pout. He gathered that in hindsight, it was pretty funny.

Things like that didn't matter now. Nothing else did but how he would spend his remaining moments of freedom. He would like to do so with his brother, but he seemed to wish to be alone now, likely to prepare for what was ahead. For years upon years, they had never been apart. This would be the first and only time in their memories that they might be separated, and who knew for how long. What would they do without each other? Though he knew he'd be forced to eventually, Connor didn't even want to think about the state Murphy would be in. He knew he'd probably drink himself to death.

When the movie cut off suddenly, Connor thought it was going to commercial, but a news anchor appeared, a woman with long, dark hair and perfect complexion, just right for a job like that. She mentioned to the viewers that the program was interrupted to bring a news bulletin about a man that had gone missing; a man named Tony Abbiati, and that the family would like to urgently speak out to him or his captor.

Connor leaned forward, inching closer to the television, turning up the volume. On the screen came a woman—blonde, tall and proud with blue eyes full of tears. In her arms was her young son, who couldn't have been more than six, who wore a T-shirt with cartoon characters on it that Connor recognized as crime-fighting turtles.

"I just wanted to tell Tony, if he's out there," began Mrs. Abbiati, rivers running down her face. "We want you to come home. We miss you, and love you. I know we've been going through some tough times but we need you here. And if someone has taken you… please, whoever you are, let my husband go." She edged her child up further to get him in the view of the camera while Connor cupped a hand over his shaking mouth.

"I miss you, daddy," the child cooed, clutching some sort of toy soldier in his hand. "Come home."

Connor clutched his face after shutting the television off, and sobbed his heart out, unable to take it any longer. Malone was already on his tail, but he wouldn't tell the truth for his sake. He would tell it for the Abbiatis, who still had no idea whether or not Tony was deceased, and he would do it for his own conscience, that bled with guilt every day since it happened. Connor left the break room in a hurry, tossing his white overcoat off, catching Murphy's attention.

"Connor?" he called to him, but Connor couldn't face him, or tell him where he was going.

_I'm sorry, Murph,_ he thought, wishing his brother could read his thoughts. _I have to do this. I love you, and try not to get into any trouble._

He pushed the heavy steel door open that led to the rear of the factory, and started jogging up the street. Murphy followed him out, but didn't chase after him. Instead, he loomed in the doorway. "_Connor!_" he cried. Connor didn't look back. He couldn't, or he'd be tempted to stay. Murphy would be okay. At least, he hoped so.

"All right," sighed Malone as he took a seat at his desk near Dolly and Greenly, who both gave him an identical expression of scorn and impatience. "Who drank the last of the coffee?"

"You," answered Greenly, but quivered when Malone responded with slanting eyes. "Just saying that you… you drink a lot of coffee, and…"

"You know why I do? So I can put up with your shit."

"Lay off of him, Malone," Dolly interceded.

"I'm not arguing here, guys. I'm just asking a question."

Dismissing his behavior, Dolly dropped it and turned to other matters, knowing he had work to do, and not any time to bicker with Malone. He had already wasted too much breath on him. Greenly also turned back to his desk, ignoring Malone, as challenging as that was.

Malone's phone rang. Already agitated enough, he picked it up and snorted, "Yeah," into it.

"There's a Connor MacManus here at the front that says he needs to speak with you."

The instant he heard that familiar name, he sat upright in his squawking office chair. "I'll be right there." He dropped the phone onto its cradle and dashed for the entrance to the station, where he saw the young Irish man waiting for him. "Connor!" he called, arms outstretched. "What can I do you for?"

Connor still had a little mirth left in him. "Not even fer a penny, I can tell ya."

Malone faked a loud chuckle. "You're good." Connor couldn't bear to smile. "Is there a reason you're visiting me today, or did you just want to let me know how _vile_ you find me?"

"Turnin' myself in, detective."

If Malone had a heart, it would have stopped. "That so? Well, come with me, Connor. Tell me all about it." He led him down the corridors, past the booking stations, and into the same interrogation room they sat in before. When Connor began to pull out his final remaining cigarette, Malone put his hand up. "Please. No smoking right now." Connor sighed and stuck the pack back in his pocket. After hitting the record button on the tape recorder, he waved to Connor, guiding him to begin.

"I shot 'im. His body is in de bay."

Malone had to admit, he was relieved to hear this news. "Really. Why?"

"He was roughin' up my bro'ter. I got… angry."

A few seconds drifted between them, then Malone hit the stop button the recorder. Connor gave it a passing glance of confusion. "You mean… you didn't _know_ Tony Abbiati?" Connor shook his head.

"No. I didn't."

Both rows of Malone's teeth were now exposed as his lips tugged upwards, and he broke into a fit of cackles, applauding in relief. "You didn't know him! _You didn't know him!_"

Connor, disturbed, looked at the door, wondering if it would be too late to escape his wrath if he decided to kill him right then and there. Sure, he believed he deserved prison time, but he'd rather be in a cell than dead. "N-no."

"Oh man. Ohh man, Connor." He swiped tears of joy from his eyes. "You have no idea how happy you just made me."

"I…" Connor, thinking now that this might be another one of Murphy's pranks, looked to see if he was hiding in the room somewhere or maybe behind the two-way mirror. "Forgive meh… I… I'm lost, here."

"Do you know anything about me, Connor? Other than I'm a detective."

"I know dat yer a creep."

He burst out with yet another elated roar. "Oh, Connor. Despite everything, I like ya."

"Can't say de feelin's mutual."

Malone, leaning back in his seat, took a deep, cleansing breath. "How come Tony was beating on your brother?"

"He was helpin' a woman he was attackin'."

His giant smile disappeared. "Did she see you shoot him?"

"Aye."

Rubbing the cleft in his chin, he calculated the situation. "She wouldn't talk, would she?"

Puzzled at this line of questioning, he stammered, "Don't t'ink so. We saved her."

"Are you sure?"

"Where are ya goin' wit' dis? Aren't ya gonna arrest me?"

"No, Connor. I'm not. Crime of passion. You weren't thinking straight."

Disbelieving his approach, Connor leaned over the table, trying to determine if lies were seeping past his teeth. "Are ya makin' a joke?"

"A joke? I don't tell jokes." The laughter died, as did his friendly look. Connor had come there expecting arrest, and Malone knew he had to come up with something he would believe. "Listen. I don't want to press charges against you. I can see that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I'm willing to sweep it under the rug if you are, okay?"

"I don't understand. Why?"

"From one man to another…" Malone drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. "If someone was messing with my brother, I'd shoot him, too."

It was surprising to hear him say that, but Connor believed him. "Do ya have one?"

"I do. He's younger than me by three years. He's a royal fuckup. Got himself into drugs and gambling. I still love the kid. It doesn't matter what he's done. He's still a saint in my eyes." Connor let the words brew in his mind for a while, wondering if Murphy felt the same way after what he had done. He must have, if he was willing to protect him the way he did. "If I saw someone pummeling on him, you'd better believe I'd kill the guy."

"So… yer sympathizin' wit' me now?"

"Guess I am."

Things were never that simple, Connor learned from experience. There was something Malone wasn't telling him. His ma didn't raise a damn fool—not two of them, anyway. That's when Connor asked, "What's in dis fer you?"

Even his usual smarmy chuckle didn't ease Connor. "Come on, son. Don't be such a cynic. Is it so hard to believe that there are decent gentlemen still left in the world?"

"Gets tougher e'ery day, to tell ya de truth."

"Just take it for what it is, Connor. Accept it. Deal with your grief in your own way. You don't belong in a cell. Go celebrate with your…" He coughed. "Whoever… you want."

Though the whole thing didn't feel right, he had to admit that his troubles were freed. "If I'm to jus' go on as before… could ya do meh a favor, den?"

"Sure."

"Could ya at least tell de guy's wife? Ya know… dat's he's… dead? So she doesn't go on not knowin' what happened."

Malone tried his best not to smirk. "Don't worry. I'll let her know. I'm sure she'll be very grateful."

_Grateful_ was not something Connor could imagine being if he had received news a loved one had died, and worse yet, murdered. "What now?"

"I'll take you home."

"Can I… get my gun back? My bro'ter and I like to go to de range toge'ter."

"Range?" Murphy placed his feet up on the table like he was chilling out in his own backyard. "You go often?"

This was not at all the type of conversation Connor expected to have when he came barreling through the front door. As all seriousness drained away, so too did his thoughts on his crime. "When we have time. It's tough wit'out a car."

Malone now had his hands folded in his lap, smooth and serene compared to how he had treated him before. "You don't say. Well, I go every weekend. You're welcome to join me. You'd have a ride, too."

"I… um… I s'ppose. I mean, I'd have to run it by Murph, and all, but…"

"Great." Malone shoved his hand forward toward Connor, and he flinched. Then he saw he wished for him to shake it, so he did, but kept his grip loose. "Thanks for clearing this up, Connor. I'm very… at ease now." Connor wished he could say the same. Malone asked him to follow him out, and Connor did, but never walked in front of him, fearing anything from a knife to a pen being shoved into his shoulder.

As soon as Connor brought the lift's door up, he saw his apartment door swing open. Murphy's stubble-covered face poked out. Connor couldn't quite place the look he gave him, unable to tell if it was anger or relief, or both. He knew just how he felt. It wasn't until Murphy stepped out of the loft and yanked him into his arms that he sensed just how pained he was over what happened earlier. Connor curled his arms around his torso and squeezed him back, almost crushing the air out of him.

"Where de fuck did ya go?" breathed Murphy.

"I went to de police station."

"Ya _what?!_"

"It's all 'ight. He let meh go when I told 'im what happened."

Murphy pulled him into the safety of the apartment, almost as though snipers had been at the ready to take Connor out. "Ya trusted 'im?"

Connor shrugged. "Not really. But what other choice do I have?"

"Why would he do dat?"

Just wanting to relax and no longer think on it, Connor dropped onto their sofa, which hardly provided enough comfort. "I dunno, Murph. He has his reasons, m'sure. De important t'ing is dat m'not goin' to prison. At least, not today." He paused, wondering why he added those last few words.

"He's after some'tin'. I know he is." Murphy, Connor felt, was sometimes validated in his suspicions and cynicism, and other times it was just paranoia. This time, however, he wasn't sure what to think. He had to agree with him on some points in this case, but he had become so tired with guilt over the past few days that he wanted to let it go.

"Aye, maybeh. Fer now, I'd jus' like to wash my hands of dis… and drink."

"I'm in fer dat. _So_ in."

"Dere's… one o'ter t'ing." Murphy tensed. "He…" He turned his eyes to the ceiling. "Wants to join us at de range."

Murphy's right eyebrow tilted upward, and for a few moments, he didn't comment. "De guy almost imprisons ya and now he's yer best friend?"

"I… I didn't say he was— he's not my friend!"

"Ya told 'im to fuck off, right? Dat's _our_ time toge'ter, and he's a piece o'shit. I'd rather fuckin' fist myself den hang out wit' 'im."

"I'm jus' tryin' to stay on his good side, all 'ight? I don' wanna give 'im an excuse to slap cuffs on meh."

"Aye… but yer givin' _meh_ a few reasons to want to."

He couldn't help but giggle at that. "In what way, exactly?"

Seeing the conversational trap he stepped in, Murphy bobbed his head in a gradual nod. "Let's go get fuckin' drunk."

That was Murphy's solution to every problem. Connor had enough issues without having to worry about a sudden onset of cirrhosis. If it would cheer him up, and he knew it would, he would join him for several shots (and several more), and he knew he'd probably be carrying his brother home over his shoulder while he slurred and passed out. He never planned it that way, but he always ended up the designated walker, or the designated poor-ice-cold-water-on-your-face.

On the other hand, a drink really would be nice, especially in the company of those he adored. Though he wouldn't be spending the night behind steel bars, he'd be spending it behind another kind, and would do his best to move on.

Even Connor knew though, that this was far from over, but it was nothing a few shots of whiskey and "sloppy kisses" didn't cure.


	9. Chapter 9

In the distance, the rise and fall of choir voices rang high, and with every step Connor took through the winding corridor, their notes grew longer and louder until he reached a pair of wooden doors. Once he faced the entrance to an unfamiliar room, the heavenly chords receded into nothing. Two individuals were with him: one he recognized as Murphy. The other, however, was an older man he had never met before, dressed in black, clad in a heavy overcoat, silver hair flowing behind him. When he and Murphy traded glances, he saw that his brother was also dressed in black. He was holding something— a bag, weighted, knocking against his leg. Something within it clacked and rattled as it swung from his tight left hand.

The three of them were silent, but inside of the very room they faced, voices echoed, incoherent. One of them was in an Italian accent. "Point o'no return," murmured Murphy now that they had come to halt. "Ya ready fer dis?"

"Ready as I'll e'er be," he felt himself say. A palm dressed his back for a moment, stroked, patted, and his own drifted to Murphy's shoulder and gripped it with warm fondness. "Wit' meh, dear bro'ter?"

"Always."

Then, as though possessed by an unknown force, they both dropped to their knees and unzipped the bags they had with them, hauling out matching handguns. After nodding to one another, they stormed through the entrance, and a piercing sound of screams surrounded him on all sides. When he saw the gentleman sitting on the witness stand, he knew within his heart he was there to murder him, in public, in broad daylight. The terror in the eyes of their spectators created an uneasy nauseam in him, knowing that such glances were only given to those who are feared, those who are cruel and emotionless, and those who wish only to wreak havoc upon civilization.

Connor didn't like being looked at that way, but he knew what had to be done. They would soon understand that it was his calling, his duty, and his job to carry on. It was not them he was after. It was the Italian he wanted. He would not be alone this day. Murphy had joined him, sided with him, and looked just as ready to take on this burden. The Old Man had guided them like a shepherd to his flock, across the room, toward their target. In the depths of Connor's mind, the events felt right, even justified, despite how horrified their onlookers were, and he would not stop; oh no, he would never stop.

A gasp ripped Connor awake, and he sat upright, coughing, his throat raspy and dry. While sitting, Murphy, who had been lying upon him, slid from his chest, groaning at the disturbance. It took a moment for Connor to realize he had been at home, in his apartment, and not in that dreadful courtroom. He was sweating, naked, panting as though he had run a mile. How long had he been out? To him, it felt like hours. He snuck a glance at Murphy, who had fumbled onto his side, smashing himself against Connor's.

"What's de matter?" asked Murphy, who hadn't the energy to open his eyes.

"Weird dream," he explained, reaching for his cigarettes. "We were terrorists or some'tin'."

"_Terrorists?_"

"We ambushed dis court hearin'… wit' guns." He heard Murphy chuckle, and he frowned at him.

"Sounds like one o'yer stupid, over de top action movies."

Connor was annoyed that he made fun of him, but he was also charmed at his ability to make a joke about it. "T'was a bit."

"Dat's what ya get fer watchin' 'em so much."

"S'ppose yer right." He lowered his back to the mattress, puffing away at the cigarette he had lit, and Murphy engulfed him and tried to get back to sleep. "Someone else was dere. An older guy."

"Clint Eastwood?" mumbled Murphy, half-asleep. Though he knew Murphy couldn't see it, he smirked. "I know ya have a hard-on fer 'im."

"I do not!"

"All 'ight, ya fuckin' liar."

"It wasn't Clint Eastwood. He was… I dunno who he was. Someone close to us."

"Was he Irish?" Murphy wondered, sounding on the borders of wakefulness and rest, his breathing slowed.

Taking a hit off his cigarette, Connor spoke after he let a cloud of smoke wisp from his nostrils. "Ya know… I t'ink he was." He didn't get a response. Murphy had gone back to sleep. Connor took the time to finish his stick of nicotine before stabbing it into an ashtray and passing out alongside him.

Bangs and shots popped throughout the room as Connor and Murphy fired into and destroyed target after target. The range was busy that day, but they didn't mind. They were in their own world, as well as each other's, competing once again like they had since childhood. Though their rivalry was thick, so too was their closeness, and despite how differently they thought, they worked well together.

This was something Malone picked up on right away when witnessing them. Connor, on his own, from what he surmised of his discussions with him, was far weaker than he was when paired with Murphy. When seeing firsthand the power they possessed when joined, he could tell they were a force to be reckoned with. When they each focused on what was required of them, nothing stopped them from achieving what they aimed for; a symbiosis unlike any other, in Malone's view. There was potential in that power—a _lot_ of potential.

He assumed that perhaps it was _too much_ power for two living soul and birth mates to have acquired, as though the gift had been granted to them by a power higher than mankind itself. What would the world do if and when they discovered they carried it? The first thing Malone thought was "tremble upon its knees and beg like pathetic puppies."

Murphy was by far the better shot, but they were both unstoppable beasts of nature. He wondered, silently, how they managed to go on so long without taking things by force. They had it in them to do so, from what he could tell. It was also evident that there was more fire in Murphy than in Connor, who was meant to put him out whenever he blazed. They were not only the perfect match, but balanced each other out.

When they finished a round, they took a break and reloaded. Malone took a step closer to them, Connor in particular, sensing that Murphy had more than shooting targets on his mind while he was around. Murphy didn't mention it to his twin, but Malone gave him a bad vibe, and not only because of the incident of Connor's near arrest. Something about him made his trigger finger itch, and he didn't want to wait until the last minute to find out what his deal was.

Early on, Malone knew Connor would be the easier one to influence. Murphy didn't want to accept his existence, let alone his companionship. If he could have their power at his fingertips to train and use how he wanted, he might be able to triple his efficiency and make his moonlighting profession a lot less interactive. "Nicely done, Connor," he complimented, indicating to his ability to rapid fire. "You'd make the boys on the force green with envy if they saw what you could do."

Connor had yet to let the matter of Malone's break-in and attempted arrest slide, but he was still honored by his compliment. "T'anks, but, to tell ya de truth, I t'ink I'm standin' in Murph's shadow. He's a lot better'n me."

"Murphy _is_ a great shot, I will admit… but you have more control than he does. I can see you think about your actions before you perform them. That's important. A man does have to have a plan in mind before execution." He shaped his thumb and forefinger into a gun and pointed it at a target in the back of the range.

"Well…" Thinking it over, Connor was inclined to agree. "Murph ne'er was a very good planner."

"I could tell. You're the thinker, aren't you? Murphy is the doer."

"I s'ppose if ya want to put it in such a… black n' white way. Dere are times even when I'm right and he still won't admit dat I came up wit' some'tin' dat worked. But dat's jus' how we are. I don' love 'im any less."

"Course not, Connor. Course not." Malone's eyes moved to Murphy, who wouldn't leave his brother and Malone together. "You're, uh… _close_. Aren't you?"

"Aye," Connor answered with caution, knowing what he was implying, and he would be correct. "Have been since we were born. Sure, we bicker, but dat's jus' what bro'ters do."

"He's askin' about some'tin' else," Murphy contributed, staring Malone down like a cat does to a fish bowl. Shocked to hear Murphy's voice, Connor turned toward it. Then he looked at Malone, but raised no questions to confirm. "But it's none o'his fuckin' business, is it?"

Amused at Murphy's loose attempt at appearing bigger than he is, Malone brushed him off. "You could say it isn't. I don't want to know anyway, believe me." Murphy grunted at him.

"Den quit askin' questions." After his weapon had been reloaded, Murphy went back to a booth and started shooting off his frustration. Connor shrugged at Malone, telling him agreed with Murphy's demand, and went back to his booth, as well.

Malone knew he wouldn't be able to utilize them both with Murphy hating him. If he wished to be their puppeteer, he'd have to do it through Connor, and he knew just how to do it.

When they had enough, they told Malone they'd be going to church. Murphy told him they'd walk, but Connor asked if he could drive them. Murphy didn't like that, and pulled his brother aside to say something in a foreign language Malone couldn't detect. Connor told Murphy, in so many words, that he didn't like Malone, either, but it was too long of a walk from the range to the church. Murphy argued that he liked his walks with Connor, only for Connor to become exasperated and say that he did too, but he was too tired. As they discussed it, Malone stood nearby, his hands in his pockets, scrutinizing the way they behaved with each other.

At last Murphy stopped to rub the back of his head after lowering it, giving up the debate. Connor was the one to speak to him when it came time to. "We'll take a ride. Jus' dis once."

"Not a problem," Malone told him, leading them out of the range and out to his car, one worth too much money for Connor and Murphy to even distinguish. Both brothers sat in the backseat, side-by-side, as to be expected. One wouldn't leave the other in the front seat next to him. "So, church huh? What religion, exactly?"

"Catholic," they said in one harmonious voice.

"_Dumb ass_," whispered Murphy.

"I'm Christian, myself," Malone told them. "An admirer of the creator's great work. He certainly makes… unique people."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "He must have confused ya wit' a horse's ass fer example." Connor snorted, then slapped a hand over his mouth to block the laughter from coming. Murphy nudged him and snickered, and whenever Murphy did, Connor couldn't help but let it out.

Malone was the only one not laughing. "You're quite the wisecracker, Murphy."

"Who said I was makin' a joke?" This made Connor lose it all over again. "I'm jus' callin' it as I see it. It's what I t'ink of when I look at ya. I don' even see a person dere, just one giant horse's backside. Ya kinda smell like one, too." Connor was in near tears by this point as Malone nodded to an unheard beat, his lips tight.

"You've made your point, I think," he said to the dark-haired twin. Still, the brothers cackled in the same manner one does when inhaling too much nitrous. If this was how juvenile they were, Malone had second thoughts about "recruiting" them. They would never be able to take such a dark profession seriously. Perhaps they weren't primed for assassinating after all.

Malone dropped them off at the mountainous cathedral they pointed him to, and Murphy was the first to leave the vehicle. Connor hung back for a moment, looking at Malone in the rearview mirror, who returned the stare.

"Sorry about Murph. He's jus'… more comfortable when he jokes around."

"And you?" he clarified.

Connor nodded, dropping his gaze. "Meh too."

"No hard feelings, Connor," Malone said to him, softer now, conciliatory. "I realize I'm limited in my fans. I don't require your approval. I understand that the circumstances of how we came to know one another were not the most pleasant, but I'd like to turn that around if I can. You both look like you could use a good friend."

"We need each o'ter. Dat's all."

"I wouldn't come between you and your brother. Clearly there isn't a substance strong enough to loosen the glue you use to adhere to him. I can just make things… _better_ for you." Connor, curious, remained silent and listened. "You and Murphy don't live a very privileged life, do you?"

"Guess it depends on how ya define it."

"You're poor."

"Ah." He nodded, showing him a lopsided smirk.

"What if I told you that with the know-how, you could earn enough to support you and your brother for three lifetimes?"

His intrigue was caught in his silver hook, but he was dubious. "I've heard o'pyramid schemes. Don' t'ink dey work."

"Not a pyramid scheme," chortled Malone. "Something better."

Connor rubbed his jaw, scratching at the prickles upon it. "Now why would ya offer such a t'ing to us?"

"It's a win-win for me, Connor. If I train you both, I could take on a lot more… work than usual. The more work to be had, the bigger the payoff. I could pay you guys a cut of what I earn."

"I dunno. I don' even know what yer askin' us to perform."

"There's not a lot of time to discuss it right now. Your brother's waiting for you. If you're interested, give me a call." He passed Connor another of his business cards, which was ivory in color, text in bold black ink. "Hope to hear from you again, Connor. And please… give it some consideration."

Before the conversation could get any creepier, Connor hopped out of the car, turning the business card around in his fingers as he walked into the church to join his brother, who was sitting in the back. When he took a seat beside him, Murphy managed to smile.

"What'd de horse's ass have to say?"

"Dunno," said Connor, keeping his amusement to a minimum. "He was a little cryptic. He talked about wantin' to hire us for some kinda job."

Murphy sounded his immediate rejection of the proposal with a scoff. "Ya didn't actually take 'im seriously, did ya?"

"Not really. But he did make it sound promisin'. And dat he'd involve both of us."

"I dunno, Connor. I already hate de mo'ter fucker." Connor elbowed him and nodded toward the bronze statue of Jesus at the head of the room. Murphy crossed his chest. "Well, he is one. I could see 'im tryin' to get all buddy-buddy wit' ya."

"Noticed dat, eh? I don' really know what he wants from meh. Not sure I want to find out, ei'ter."

Murphy dropped his voice to a hush, leaning against Connor. "He'd have to get t'rough me first." That was something Connor was already well-versed on. He pecked the corner of Murphy's mouth, where an inconspicuous mole sat on his upper lip. He squinted and curled his nose. "Hate when ya kiss me dere."

"Can't help it. Dat little dot is always askin' fer it."

"Yer _face_ is askin' fer it."

"T'anks?" Connor wasn't sure whether to smile or grimace, but was eased by Murphy's rain of light kisses upon both of his cheeks.

"Told ya," Murphy added, suppressing a face-bursting grin, and Connor pulled him closer to his chest.

Their walk home was a comforting one where they got to chatting about varying types of weapons, especially guns, and Murphy became rather excited at the concept of holding a Desert Eagle. Just at the words "Desert Eagle," Connor salivated. That was his dream gun. There was no telling how he'd react if he had one in his possession.

Not even following a few steps into the loft, Connor turned the television on while Murphy readied the shower. A loud hiss entered the room as the picture came up with nothing but static. Frowning, Connor slapped the set a few times, but nothing came up.

"Fuckin' hell," he moaned. "Guess dey found out." He looked at Murphy, who was showering. "Got no cable now!"

"Oh no," Murphy pretended to weep.

"Ay, fuck you, all 'ight? I need my television."

"Fuck yer television. De t'ing gives me headaches."

With nothing else better to do, Connor stripped down and climbed under the shower next to him. "So does booze, but ya keep on drinkin' it." Murphy rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. He knew he was right. "Now how de fuck am I s'pposed to waste my afternoons?"

Leaning his head back under the water, Murphy asked, "Why don' we jus' pay fer it?"

"Would have done dat before if we could. We haven't even eaten a decent meal in days. Ya expect to afford cable?"

Murphy kept a positive outlook for his brother's sake. "We could make our own fun."

"Doin' what?" he grumbled. "Fuckin' and playin' cards? As much as I like it with ya, Murph, I'm only good for one round before I'm out, if ya know I mean." Murphy nodded. He was well aware. "What we need is more money."

Murphy didn't like the direction this conversation was heading in. He knew the way Connor became when desperate, and when Malone dangled the possibility of cash over his brother's head, it was the perfect lure. "Don' even t'ink about it. We can take care of each o'ter. Fuck 'im."

"I don' have many o'ter options, Murph. We can't very well take care of each o'ter if we can hardly feed one another."

The idea of Malone hanging around them every day, on top of working at the plant, stoked the fire that was always burning in the depths of his gut. "We'll be all 'ight!"

Connor pointed to the items and furniture in their living space, sneering at the torn sofa, crushed cans, and littered ashtrays. "Aye. Perfectly all 'ight. De place reeks to high heaven, de floor feels like it's about to give way, and dere's no point whatsoever to close our front door because _de lock fell off of it! _Have I mentioned dat our fridge broke down yet?"

Murphy's tone changed to something more reasonable in order to level with him. "I'm not sayin' dis is a great place to live. But Connor, you've gotta know dat if we pull dat horse's ass into our lives, we're gonna get _no'tin'_ but shit on."

Of course Connor knew that. He didn't trust Malone any more than he trusted Rocco to tell a well-constructed joke. He didn't wish to be Malone's friend, but he did wish to take better care of his brother. "We may have no o'ter choice. I'm just as uncertain about de whole t'ing. De only o'ter way is to give up smokin' and drinkin'." Murphy's eyes stretched, and he tossed his head back and forth, his drenched hair wagging. "Aye. I agree. So… we need some'tin' else to help us get by."

He thought to suggest finding a second job somewhere else, but the problem was that they had already offered themselves to several establishments looking for workers, and not one of the businesses had contacted them afterward. Connor was right, though he despised to admit it, that their options were scarce. It was true that they could afford their own beer and cigarettes now that they had left Rocco's place, but that was about all they could afford, other than some soda bread and stew every now and again, as well as the occasional pizza, which they found they adored much more than their own native cuisine.

There would be no recourse, Murphy feared. They might have to indeed bite the bullet. "Find out what he wants from us. Den… I guess we'll see." Connor smacked their lips together, hoping to relax him, but it had the opposite affect. At the sound of his twin's moans, he didn't feel all that relaxed, either.

"I s'ppose I _could_ go wit'out de television," he reveled, swinging his arms around Murphy's neck and giving him the deepest kiss he could manage.


	10. Chapter 10

Malone's newest client was an older man, in his sixties, who had heard of Malone's practices through a friend of his that had hired him once. The man had apparently let it slip to his friend that he wished someone dead, and his companion let him in on Malone's secret profession. Over luncheon at a diner that didn't appeal to him, Malone went over the details with him, including the target the man wished dead, and from what he could so far tell, it would not be an easy job.

"So," Malone uttered once the conversation stalled. "This guy is your boss. That's what you're telling me."

"S-sort of," the grayish man mumbled, fiddling with a napkin he had been twirling for the past ten minutes. "He pays us under the table. I'm just… so sick of him scheduling me for double the work and never giving me a raise. I've earned it, haven't I?"

The skilled detective was not one to question the motives of his clients. Some were sane, some were not so much, and others were just plain spiteful, vengeful bastards. In this case, however, he was too curious not to pose questions. "So you want me to snuff him out, rather than politely ask him to bump up your pay?"

"That'd be nice, yeah."

The gray man wasn't seeing things from his perspective, and that was usually a bad sign in a contractual agreement. "You understand, don't you, how stupid that is? Are you just going to continue working there under someone else?"

"I-I'll find a new place to work." He didn't look so sure now.

"So why can't you just do that now?"

His brow pinched as he struggled for a good enough reason as to why he couldn't. "Look." He clenched his teeth, tearing the napkin. "It's not just the money or the work I've put in. The man is a piece of shit. I _hate_ him. Whenever I see him, I think of how badly I wish he was dead, but I don't have the courage to do it."

After taking a sip of his coffee, he checked his watch to make sure they still had time left to talk before he had to head back to the station. "Does anyone else in the office know you hate him this much?"

"Just my friend, and he doesn't work there. I don't talk to anyone else about these sorts of feelings."

"Maybe you should?" Malone suggested.

"Don't tell me how to live my life. Are you going to do this, or not?"

Another sip of coffee, and Malone shrugged. "Sure. Just know that if anyone suspects you… if you throw yourself under the bus, I am not jumping under it after you, you got that? Don't forget what I can do, and you'd better believe I'd sooner arrest you in my place than sit in the tank."

"It won't be a problem, Mister Malone. I'll keep quiet. Trust me."

Malone had trouble trusting his clients these days. Some of them loved to tell a "bad ass" story about how they hired a hit man to whack a guy they didn't like. It wasn't "bad ass" in his eyes. It was just work. "Five kay for the pop. Can you pay it?"

The gray man's grateful eyes sparkled with hope. "Yessir."

"Two kay up front before the job. Three kay when I show you proof."

"I can do that. No problem."

Malone smiled and reached for his hand, and the man took it and gave it a vigorous shake. "Call me up when you have the money ready. Then we'll get to business." The man agreed to the arrangements, and Malone handed him some money for the bill before leaving the restaurant.

Arriving at the station, he was given a series of messages, but the one he was most interested in was one from Connor. While alone at his desk and no one to bother him, he picked up the phone and gave him a call. It rang a total of seven times before he heard an exhausted voice answer.

"Connor," Malone said first, realizing that Connor wasn't about to speak. "I'm excited to hear you've contacted me."

"Aye," he breathed. "I did. I had… questions."

"I hoped you would. Are you available tonight?"

"M'always available, honestly."

"Great. I know a place where we could relax and chat. Murphy can come along, too, of course."

Even Connor's heavy breathing paused for a moment. "I'll… ask 'im."

"I'll come get you in a couple of hours. Be ready. I'm not a patient man, Connor."

"Right," he gasped. "See ya den." They each hung up, and Malone smiled on both the inside and out.

Malone had been called to many crime scenes that he was responsible for, and none of which had enough evidence to put him to blame. In some cases, he was able to clean the scene up so well that it looked as though the target had skipped town or disappeared without a trace. Even the newest hit had little to no trace of evidence, except for maybe minor struggles. Malone couldn't credit himself an assassin if he did a sloppy job. It didn't help his case that almost every other detective hated his guts, and wanted to see him dead, let alone in a cell, but until they could pin something on him that was his fault, he was a free man.

He remembered the recent target well: twenty-two year-old Fenton Louis, who the client asked to murder over a romantic dispute. A girl the client loved had developed an attraction to Louis, and he wanted him out of the picture. He never did ask if she bothered to hook up with him after that. As long as he got what was owed to him, personal lives were just another waste of time. It was a fun kill, however. Louis had some energy in him. Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing running shoes that day, and there were a lot of rain puddles to hop over.

When given the choice between multiple hits, Malone always had to choose the most profitable one. If he could sweet talk the MacManus brothers into assisting him, he could soon look at raking in more money than he could handle. He could use a good shooter or two. He knew it'd be quite the challenge getting them to agree to it—they were Catholic, after all—but he could charm anyone into giving up something valuable, including their purity.

His arrival at the MacManus residence hadn't been a minute late, and he was glad to see Connor had taken him seriously about being ready. To his shock, as well as approval, Murphy would be joining them, but he didn't look too satisfied about it. He shoved into him as he left the apartment, and though Malone was taller than he was, he could tell that Murphy could pack quite the punch if he desired to.

Malone took the brothers to a topless bar dubbed the Sin Bin, where they could share drinks and get a show at the same time. It didn't dawn on the brothers just what kind of place it was until he took them inside.

Murphy was the first to curl his lip at the sight of table and lab dancers, shaking their fun bags hoping to squeeze dough from their customers. "I t'ink I'm gonna t'row up," he warned Connor, who was too stunned to say much. They joined Malone at a corner table, where he ordered drinks from a half-naked woman on stiletto heels, and paid her extra to make it quick.

Connor's eyes moved around the room, to the many pairs of breasts that passed by, as well as the woman who undressed onstage. "What de fuck kinda place is dis?" he whispered to Murphy.

"I dunno. But it's disgustin'."

"You boys will have to forgive me," Malone told them, taking his drink as it was brought to him. "I realize this kind of environment is not your…" He peered at Connor's arm, which was resting on the top of the seat behind Murphy's back. "Cup of tea. I thought this might be the best place to have our particular talk, since the seediest of individuals tend to mind their own business and keep to themselves… and I like a fun distraction." He chuckled, but the brothers only stared at him. "Now… let's get to what you're here for." Malone folded his hands upon the table surface and lowered his voice. "How much do you guys make at the plant?"

"Not enough," Connor said before Murphy could interject.

"Didn't think so. The work I propose is paid in commission. We do a job offered to us, we get paid for it. It's as simple as that. However… you would need a lot of training. You've got skills. I've seen them firsthand. What I'd like to do is see those skills in action."

"Could ya jus' tell us what we'd be doin'?" Murphy asked, growing impatient, bobbing in his seat.

"I'm getting to that, Murphy." He took a drink, studying them for a while. What could he tell them that they would buy, and that they would approve of? From what he could tell of them, they were foolish, but decent gentlemen. They wouldn't kill as indiscriminately as he did—he knew that much. He would have to give them a reason, an incentive, to do what he asked them to.

"I've seen you together," he began. "What you can do. I know detectives who can't shoot the way you guys can." They both smiled a bit, beaming with pride. "You're good. You are. What if I told you that you could get paid to shoot?" They leaned forward, silent and attentive. "Paid _well._ You see, fellas, being a detective can be tough sometimes. You don't catch them all. Some slip through your fingers, and through our judicial system."

"Does dat happen a lot?" asked Murphy.

"You bet it does. There are some sick fuckers out there, and they don't always get caught by us. When we have nothing we can use against them." He snapped his fingers and threw his hand to the wind. "Poof. They walk. And there's nothing we can do." Malone ransacked his mind for a memory he had long since buried. Now might have been the perfect opportunity to open the wound. He took another sip of his drink, then went on. "There was this girl… fourteen years old. Drugged. Raped. Then stabbed to death in the middle of the day. Left in a gutter to bleed to death. Not a single person called us. We got the report much, much too late." Connor and Murphy's eyes rounded, horror capturing them. "I had to stand there and control my gagging while I checked her for evidence, but not just because the sight was so horrible. I _knew_ her."

"From where?" Connor asked with a staggering breath when Malone halted his tale, drinking quicker than usual.

"She was my neighbor's daughter. I paid her to wash my car once. I remember she bought herself this new skirt with the money I gave her." He took a deep breath and prodded his cheek with the tip of his tongue. He hadn't thought about this in years, let alone brought it up. Despite all he had done, it still haunted him. "When I saw her, I noticed she was wearing it that day. It was torn to pieces. I had never felt so angry in my entire life, gentlemen, and frankly, I don't think I will again. It was then that I realized that deep down, human beings are scum. They are the most wretched, the most hateful, and the most evil creatures ever placed on God's green earth. And I stopped giving a single ounce of a shit about saving their lives."

The brothers had bowed their heads, out of both respect and to hide the shakes they quaked with. "What was her name?" Murphy wished to know.

"Kate," sighed Malone, finishing off his drink with one gulp. "But she liked to be called 'Kitty'. Kitty Genovese." Connor and Murphy's sadness could almost be tasted. Malone had buried his claws in, whether he intended to or not.

Connor cleared his throat. "M'sorry."

"That's all right, Connor. I'm finished shedding tears over the past. I've moved on. That's where you two come in." He flagged a waitress down to fetch him another drink. "We like to pull the veil over our eyes and pretend, don't we? We like to block out our disturbing world so we don't have to deal with the twinge in our stomach afterward. That's not the way it should be. Do you agree?"

"Aye," they responded in unison.

"These men that escape us… we know what they've done. I've taken it upon myself to act as…" He shrugged. "A bounty hunter of sorts. Any criminal that doesn't get what he deserves in a court of law… I take out with my own hands."

"Y… you mean ya kill dem?" stammered Connor.

Malone smiled, then nodded. "Not only do I rest easy at night knowing I've eliminated another scumbag from society, but I get paid pretty handsomely by those who also wish to see the world cleaned of filth. People contact me, knowing my line of work, tell me about one of these…" He hesitated, waiting for a good word to use. "Lowlifes… and I do what I'm paid to do."

"If yer in it fer makin' de world a better place," Murphy confronted, cautious and doubting. "Why take money from innocent people?"

"A man has to make a living, Murphy."

"But ya already have a job. Yer a detective. Ya got no excuses."

"You already have jobs, too, but you still contacted me for more money. Money is the green river from which we all must drink, boys, whether we like the taste of it or not. Money is what makes us. I'm still a little human, too. Keep that in mind."

"I dunno, Malone," Connor chimed in, interrupted Murphy's next retort. "It seems a little… no offense, or any'tin'… _whacko_."

Malone had waited for that moment when one of them would say it. He already prepared a decorative pledge. "Decent men with loving families come home every day to news reports of rapists, and murderers and child molesters. They all get released from prison. Mafiosos getting caught with drugs of all kinds, only to be bailed out the same day. People always think it, gentlemen, but never act upon it: someone should just _kill_ the fuckers. Just wipe them off the planet. Admit it: I'm sure even you two have thought about it."

"Lord, no," Connor gasped.

"Never," whispered Murphy.

"Dat's not who we are."

"Yes it is," Malone told them in one long breath. "I know it is. Call me 'whacko' all you like, but you guys were destined for something. I don't believe in coincidences. I don't think it was a coincidence that you shot Tony Abbiati, Connor. We were meant to meet. This I can feel."

Connor had to admit that he felt something similar when he and Malone first laid eyes on each other the day he was in that interrogation room. "What are ya proposin' exactly? Why would we do dis?"

"Each hit," Malone continued with briskness in his once rough voice, "Comes with a payout. I collect about two grand per hit. I'm willing to give you boys a decent chunk of that change. Maybe a thousand dollars? Five hundred for each of you?"

They glanced at each other, perplexed expressions matching. Connor was the first to answer. "And dese people… dey're all… ya know… _bad?_"

"As rotten as they can get. You'll see once you free one of their souls just how liberating it is; when you know that man who raped a child won't live to hurt another, or when someone poisons a spouse just because they want to sleep with someone else, and you poison them right back. Then, you can go home with your consciences cleared and your pockets full. Connor, you can rest assured that you'd repay for the mistake you made with Tony, reclaim your rightful place, as it were."

Connor and Murphy had been telling the truth when they said they never thought about killing, but the more Malone told them about it, the more sense it made. How could they not take up the responsibility? They'd be doing society some good, and would be able to make a few bucks to pay for food.

When they leaned closer to each other, and farther away from Malone, Murphy asked, "So whaddya t'ink?"

Connor released a heavy sigh and his looked Murphy in the face, detecting both curiosity and dread in it. "I don' know fer sure whether or not I'm very comfortable wit' it. Dere's some'tin' about it all dat… doesn't feel very right."

"I'm wit' ya on dat. We'd be takin' a big risk, here. Whether or not he's a cop."

"Aye. All de same, t'ough… I feel almost as if… we're s'pposed to do it."

"I sort of do, too." A lull entered the conversation as Connor and Murphy gave each other serious looks, but it was especially Murphy who looked upon his twin with warning. Connor, sighing, looked from his brother to the ceiling, then back to Murphy.

"We're in it toge'ter, right?" he asked, softer this time.

"Absolutely."

With his assertion, Connor leaned away from him and back over the table alongside Murphy, and they each looked at Malone with identical seriousness. "When did ya want us to start?"


End file.
